


/development\

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ableism, Abuse of an adult child, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Caregiving, Case Fic, Coping, Daddy Kink, Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Fatal Illness, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Home Movies, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Hypervigilance, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Managing, Marking, Masturbation, Medication tampering, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Masturbation, Nightmares, Older Man/Younger Man, Pandemic Discussion, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Rimming, Season 2 Alteration Fic, Sex Toys, Systemic Racism, Temperature Play, Therapy, Trauma, Trust Issues, anxiousness, canon minor character death, compassion fatigue, complex PTSD, spoilers through 2x07, workplace discrimination, workplace harassment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29917968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: It’s been a year, to say the least. A year of trauma, rehabilitation, pandemic, and transitioning jobs. A year of surviving.Monday and Thursday, every week like the clockwork of going to therapy, Malcolm works at reconciling with his father. He also wrestles with thoughts of what could have happened if he didn’t call 911 the night Endicott was murdered. Malcolm and Gil struggle to communicate their needs with each other. Gil considers what’s next for him and how to best support the team as he learns to create more balance in his life. JT faces workplace discrimination and harassment while leading the team through an investigation into murders where victims were impaled with a scattershot of nails.Contains some events and elements from 2x01, told differently. Story is complete—4 chapters will be edited and posted every Monday and Thursday for 5 weeks over hiatus.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Past Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo - Relationship
Comments: 24
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a gigantic thank you to [OfScarletLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfScarletLetters/pseuds/OfScarletLetters/works) and [tess_genor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/pseuds/tess_genor/works) for providing deep, thought-provoking feedback while editing this for me. the large amount of time and effort they poured into this demanding more vegan beef and bringing humor while helping me improve was much appreciated and a brightness to the day. this story grew by half again with their feedback, which is a huge testament to how much they helped. ::big hugs:: to both of you for your respect and dedication in balancing this story. thank you, friends <3

"Tummy time is just so important," Martin's voice booms across the room.

Bright scrambles out of bed like a baby giraffe tumbling over all of his limbs, primed to faceplant into the wood floor. Gil moves at the same time, trying to simultaneously locate the threat and track Bright’s position, afraid the wild blip will disappear from the radar between blinks. The safe is across the room from them in the closet, out of quick reach to face the intruder, weapons tucked away because an accident is more likely to happen in their loft than a need for defense. Gil eyes the path, checks the activity between Martin and Bright. Eyes the path...

"I wouldn't do that, Lieutenant," Martin warns, his eyebrows reaching his snarl of curls. He's still in his white uniform and oatmeal sweater with an air of casually out walking for the day and just so happened upon their loft. Gil doesn't spot any weapon in Martin's hands, but he knows Martin is still a threat. Martin's existence is a threat, his very act of breathing deleterious to Bright. "I just came to check on my boy's health," Martin tells him in a patronizing tone.

"You don't belong here. J-just go," Bright stammers, attempting to sound authoritative, but his fear is palpable in the disturbed morning air. A cold front came in, and it's a toss-up whether his voice or body shakes more, his small stature crunched further by hunched shoulders. As much as Gil wants to shield Bright from the monster, he knows he's better served retrieving a weapon to defend them.

"That's no way to speak to your father," Martin scolds Bright like a child. It establishes his position of power, leaving Bright the underdog in his own home.

"What do you want?"

"What are your latest dosages?" Martin picks up a bottle from the counter, thumb rubbing over the fine print. "Don't think you need this." He tosses it aside like the day's newspaper, the pills rattling in their shell.

Gil cringes for Bright, knowing it's torture for his father to be accessing his medical information. Bright’s phone is on the counter past Martin—he won't be able to get to it easily. Gil's remains in his nightstand drawer, left behind in the scramble to address the man towering over the counter. Gil keeps shuffling toward the closet, moving slowly to avoid Martin's attention. Hopefully, Bright can keep him occupied long enough so Gil can get help.

"I do—helps with the hallucinations," Bright explains.

Martin scoffs. "Hallucinations?"

"A serial killer for a father will give you trauma. Who knew?" Bright sounds jovial, ready for witty repartee that'll get them in trouble.

"Son..." Martin trails off and shakes his head. The next bottle comes off the counter in his grasp, its contents rat-a-tating to get out. "What, do they think you're depressed, too?"

"I am."

"Is that why you need tummy time?" Martin sneers. " _Mister_ Arroyo." He swings his head and locks eyes across the room, icy steel attempting to root Gil in place. Gil swallows thoughts of killing the man, of squeezing his chattering throat shut until all of his malicious words die inside of him. Doing something risky with Bright’s life on the line is a nonstarter. Inflicting more trauma on Bright is equally unappetizing.

"Lieutenant to you," Gil throws his power back in Martin's face. Historically, meeting power with power has seemed to be one of the few ways to stand a chance sparring at the line with him. It’s the one advantage Gil has—Martin despises Gil’s badge and the role Gil played in sending him to prison.

"What did I tell you?" Martin’s words project careful calculation.

"You should leave our home before I have you forcibly removed," Gil growls.

"Being fresh?" Martin slides his arm across Bright’s neck, pulls him taught against his front. Any touch from his father off the table, the embrace is far more intimate than Bright would invite, the decision made for him under duress. "I don't think that ends well for your lover."

"Husband," Gil angrily corrects Martin, knuckles cracking under the force he squeezes into his hands.

"I didn't seem to get an invitation. What does your wife think about that?" Martin tents his hands, abundantly pleased with himself for wedging a knife between Gil’s ribs. The handle sticks out, pointing toward the perpetrator, chanting, _Martin, it’s him, he’s the executioner_.

Gil keeps his expression steady and slides another step closer to the closet.

"All these years and you still didn't learn," Martin accuses Gil, his icy stare flashing with fire. A crack of bone loud enough to pain his own spine, and Bright drops to the floor like a kicked calf left to suffocate in the mud. His form is still—too still.

Pain radiates from the back of Gil's hand and vibrates up his arm in pulses as insistent as his phone when they get called out. He opens his eyes to an empty bed and his fingers curling away from where he whacked the nightstand in his sleep. Fishing his phone out of the nightstand drawer, his nightmare drums through him that there’s a threat in the loft. There’s a red line across the back of his hand and light swelling puffs under his thumb, but it’s nothing compared to the driving need to sweep their home. Pacing through the main floor, he double-checks the doors and windows are locked and verifies he's the only one inside. He and Sunshine, who looks back at him with an inquisitive head tilt, wondering what's wrong with her papa.

They have responsibilities at home beyond themselves. They have Sunshine to care for and ensure she makes it through dangerous moments unscathed. Fumes from cooking, candles, and things left out used to be their biggest worries, but now… assailants have been inside. Very real danger has burst through their front door, and if it happens again, he has Bright to look out for first before considering himself.

Bright.

He slowly remembers Bright left for work early to make his scheduled dinner time with his father that evening. Gil's on his own. He shoots off a text, needing some indication his partner is doing alright.

Partner, not husband. Yet. They’ve talked about it plenty of times, but Bright isn’t ready. _They’re_ not ready. It’s been a year, to say the least. A year of trauma, rehabilitation, pandemic, and transitioning jobs. A year of surviving.

Getting officially out of Bright’s chain of command is one of the things that needs to be resolved before he and Bright can get married.

One of many.

The C. O. Detective Squad position is more a formality than anything, a vestige stalled handing over to JT. JT assumed the position he earned as part of an agreement for Gil to mentor and help him grow into the role, the two of them swapping career tracks as Gil approached retirement. It gave JT increased responsibility, the department a succession plan, and Gil the opportunity to balance his home life with his work responsibilities as a team member instead of a lead. So far, the department has been the major beneficiary of the agreement, as the team was prepared when Gil was injured and kept operating smoothly. Officially transitioning the position and getting JT’s Sergeant promotion approved remains pending due to an IAB investigation launched after the incident outside of Gil and Bright’s loft. The number of retaliatory incidents other officers have committed since encroaches on double digits.

Gil _can_ believe the department he’s worked in for upwards of thirty-five years is failing at something so routine as a promotion. It hurts his heart more than he can explain to Bright that during those years, the department hasn’t changed more. That instead of celebrating JT’s first year in charge of the team, JT’s embroiled in discussions to keep his job. That the night the safety of their home was breached and he almost lost his partner to an axe-wielding assailant, he also almost lost his friend to fellow officers.

Gil’s phone buzzes and _< 3 you, see you soon_ comes back. He'll have to take it to brush away the nightmare and push on with his day. The issues waiting for him in the daylight have a chance of being mitigated.

He spins his ring around his finger and makes his way to the shower. The warm water feels good against his stomach, soothing muscles that are still recovering. As long as he keeps up with his exercises and knows his limits, he does okay. He’s a lot further along than he was a couple months ago when he was unable to get out of bed on his own.

He has a case to get to, tracking down the source of a nail gun used to shoot dozens of nails into a victim. In a city bustling with constant construction, it’s a needle in a haystack. It’s difficult to see it as the most important activity to work on when departmental failings shroud the team. It's more important to him to close the open investigation into JT's conduct. There will always be more cases to work—there is only one JT.

Gil rifles through the closet, looking for the thick navy sweater Jackie had gifted him, needing a bit of extra comfort in his day. Combing through all the shelves, even getting up on tiptoe, Gil doesn’t spot the familiar knit speckled with stray white like his hair. As a last resort, he texts Bright again, _Have you seen my navy sweater?_

_It had a hole._

_Where is it?_

The answer that comes back leaves Gil gritting his teeth and pulling on vibrant orange, the metal zipper not holding back his frustration as he drives to the precinct. When he steps inside, he taps Bright on the elbow and silently leads him to coffee down the block, out of range of their workplace.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” Gil says gruffly, his annoyance spouting through an outlet.

Bright’s eyes open wider and quickly contract. “It—“

“Was a gift from Jackie that could be mended. _Don’t_ touch my stuff.”

“I’m sorry.” Bright’s gaze hits the ground and his shoulders slouch in apology, but it doesn’t assuage any of Gil’s distress. It’s yet another thing out of Gil’s control that he can’t reverse.

Gil’s face is far too crinkled for a recycled sweater, the tension giving him a headache. When he relies on simple comforts to steady himself through the shit, losing one is a tough start to the week. He’s left with a melancholy weight that a part of Jackie is no longer in reach. That someday, there won’t be any pieces left.

He shuffles along mechanically as others move forward, creeping toward a programmed destination where caffeine is the fix for all ills. Approaching the front of the line, the barista beams a smile at them four sizes too big for the occasion. “A black coffee, and—“ Bright starts.

“Make that a quad-shot Americano, please,” Gil cuts in.

“Gil…” Bright glares at him, further argument going unspoken between their eyes. Gil’s change in beverage choice is more telling than he wants to talk about. Out of the corner of his eye, Gil can see the barista look at Bright expectantly. “And a blueberry protein shake,” Bright turns his head and responds. His credit card is out and in their hand before they can ask, then they shuffle over to the end of the bar to wait as he puts his wallet away. He catches Gil’s jacket at the elbow and leans toward him. “Hey—“

“At home, okay?” Gil rubs the bridge of his nose. He needs to close the wound with his coffee and get on with the day.

“Do you want to take a couple laps around the block with me? Helps me re-center,” Bright offers.

Not particularly, but Bright’s right. Gil drops his hand to his pocket and nods. The fresh air would be good, therapist-recommend even. Collecting their drinks, they venture into the winter air that pinkens Bright’s nose and ears. 

The caffeine bursts through Gil’s system, his coffee much stronger than what he usually has. He's more focused on the feeling than anything around him—the city might as well be the countryside for all he cares. A trip upstate is a break he’s wanted to take anyway, but with lingering fear of the pandemic and their choices to focus on what is important to them, now is not the right time. “I’m sorry I snapped,” he says after the click of his shoe on a plaque in the sidewalk notes they’re halfway into their second lap.

“It’s okay,” Bright is quick to return.

“It’s really not.” ‘Fine,’ ‘okay’—these words’ meanings are counterintuitive in their relationship, not resembling anything close to the spirit of the definitions. Stacked up, they paint a picture rosier than Bright’s cheeks, but pain lingers in the chill underneath.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I won’t do it again.” Bright finds more interest in the ground than the walk in front of them. His blue peacoat is popped around the collar, protecting his neck from the wind.

Gil takes in a few deep breaths, measuring out what he needs to say. “I miss her.” Most days, in a pit that gets shallower and shallower but never fills. “That hit me really hard this morning.”

Bright brushes the edge of Gil’s hand. “Can I give you a hug?”

Gil pulls him into a hug instead of replying, burying his head in Bright’s shoulder and neck. Tucked in beside a building, Bright rubs Gil’s back and holds on for an eternity Gil doesn’t want to let go of. Bright’s real. There. Safe. The present and future that buoys Gil from sinking back into the intangible past.

Traces of lavender and fruit smell of the shower Bright took that morning, of the care he took to put on lotion and prepare himself for the elements. A similar routine of comforts to help him through the day, knowing it would end at his father.

Gil pulls away and immediately starts walking again. If he moves his feet fast enough, he can make it back to the precinct without Bright attempting to talk. His fingers curl into his palms, avoiding the chill but also managing his stress.

“We could go for lunch later if you want some company or just need to get out,” Bright suggests.

Gil nods. He doesn’t say anything the rest of their walk and eventually steers him back into the precinct. Breaking away, he prepares his notes on the nail gun capable of taking high-capacity magazines that he learned was part of the equipment at the construction site. He heads down to interrogation where the first on scene awaits, the questions they’ve asked him so far leading to nothing useful.

“Dale, did you have access to the nail gun?” Gil asks. It had been left on scene, still attached to the compressor, the front of it splattered with a significant amount of dried blood not part of the original paint job. The one-of-a-kind tool would have carried a hefty price tag if marketed as a flame decal instead of a murder weapon.

Dale Pinay sits ramrod straight across from Gil, speaking when spoken to, yet not saying much else, making the rest of the room feel as stiff as him. He processes Gil’s words and responds, "I did. I just got to work, though. Saw him, called 911."

Gil plays things more easy going, not playing into the tension radiating from Dale. "No one saw you?"

"No one ever sees us. We've been working in that shop a couple weeks and everyone walks on by." Dale shrugs. "That's New York."

“Is it common for you to be alone?"

"I left on schedule. I guess... he didn't."

Gil leans forward, making his presence a bit more imposing. "There's something more important here than the schedule."

"I get that.” Dale taps his fingers into the table to reinforce his understanding. “It's the only thing that stands out as different to me. We were usually around at the same time."

"You were the last seen with him, and he was dead the next morning." First on scene, first potential suspect.

"Just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I'm not grieving," Dale defends himself, readjusting his posture.

"I get it." Gil will never be able to take his ring off. And Bright just... gets it. When they went to buy rings, they only bought one like it was the expected thing to do. Maybe for them, it was.

"I really need to get back to work," Dale insists, bringing Gil's attention back to the man across from him. “I don’t work, I don’t make rent. They don’t pay me to be here.”

"No one has been able to corroborate your whereabouts during the time of the murder," Gil reminds him.

"You also can't hold me any longer because there is no evidence I did anything.” Dale stands, effectively ending the conversation. “I showed up to do my job. The same thing Arlo did, and that got him killed."

Gil rubs his face. The distant latch of the hallway doors catching precludes the interrogation room door opening and a uni stepping in to see Dale out. They're all just trying to do their jobs.

It doesn’t have the same appeal that it used to.


	2. Chapter 2

"Bet you don't have a knife this good in your mother's kitchen," Dr. Whitly jokes, shaking a spork at Malcolm.

Father. His father, Gabrielle's reminder creeps in. Malcolm's own green plastic sits tight in his fist, more fingers forming his grip than strictly necessary. If it snaps, is that murder? Utensilcide?

"Try the peas"—a sporkful goes into his father's mouth—"you always liked those."

He did? His hand moves of its own accord, corralling a few stray peas and swallowing them without even a squish, only a trace of salt remaining on his tongue. His spork stalls midair going back to the tray when he realizes eating wasn't a personal desire at all—he merely listened to his father's wishes. Does he even like peas?

"Compliments to the chef?" Dr.… his father asks.

Malcolm nods because it seems the expected thing to do, the thing that might get his father's dissecting gaze to move on to studying something else. Even that feels like a puppeted move as he starts second-guessing every word, every move, every thought.

"Mr. David, we have a winner!" his father cheers, all smiles over the minute development.

Malcolm scoops up a few more peas that go down without chewing. He hasn't eaten since a shake at breakfast, should be ravenous even, but nothing's appealing. The food is fine—it's everything else about the place, the man he's forcing himself to visit, that turns his stomach. The competing smells of disinfectant, antiseptic, and sweat baked into the building offer pungent incentive to see himself out, but he counters the urge with sheer determination. Weeks of this, and the visits are improving, but it would be difficult for an outsider to tell.

"You haven't been this quiet since the nineties." His father's casual cockiness dominates the conversation.

Malcolm shoots a glare that reaches his father's collar.

"Oh, right, past to a minimum. My bad." His father gives an apologetic look he can't tell is real or not. He wonders if his father even knows the truth. "Is something on your mind?" his father continues.

How many minutes until he can get out of this hell? How reconciling seems to be the least intelligent idea he's ever had? How much he loved his father, and how that leaves him with a bevy of conflicting emotions eating him from the inside out?

"Captain got your tongue?"

It's an easy jab that gets under Malcolm's skin without his consent, rearing his agitation and speeding his words. "You know it's the Lieutenant, and you haven't forgotten—"

"He's off limits. You brought him up. Breaking your own rules, son?" His father grins back, proud to have the upper hand.

"We're done." Malcolm drops his spork with a _plink_ and pushes away from the table. It's one irritation too far to top the day.

His father has the gaul to act like Malcolm is the one out of line. "Don't be rash. You still have—"

Malcolm shoves a bucketful of peas into his mouth, the thin shells popping under the pressure. Mushy debris floods his tongue, the taste gag-inducing. He forces himself to swallow around it and meet his father's eyes, challenging him with the zeal of a defiant child. "Happy now?"

"Come back Thursday once you've had time to cool down," his father dismisses him as if sending him to his room.

Thursday, because it was his ingenious idea to rein this relationship in, to get it back under his control so it doesn't haunt his nightmares. Monday and Thursday, every week like the clockwork of going to therapy. Reconciling the father he loved with the serial killer.

Malcolm lowers his eyes, losing all resolve for the fight. "Goodbye, Dr. Whitly."

"Dad."

"Fa—" Malcolm's stomach rolls with pea soup, threatening to rise and strike. "Goodbye."

He can't leave fast enough, power-walking through the building and out to the street. Plucking his ring from his jacket pocket, he slips it back onto his finger and cradles the cool metal in his fist. Many aspects to journal spill out of him, lining the street with all of the ticks against him.

"It's been twenty years, Malcolm." Those weren't Gabrielle's words, but that's how he remembers them. "He's one person. It's not healthy to keep slicing him into multiple pieces."

Distancing language, useful for maintaining perspective in a tough situation, yet indicative of a larger problem in a relationship if continually used for a long period of time. Part of his standard kit for seeing his father. He can think of his father as his father but can't manage to call him that to his face.

"Practice in the mirror," Gabrielle suggested.

It was too reminiscent of his father's face staring back at him, melding with his own if he blinked. Just like his father had become Dr. Whitly, he had become Malcolm Bright. If he starts calling his father 'father' to his face, will he start unraveling himself? Is he unraveled already? Is his idea of exposure therapy meeting his father twice a week just leaving him exposed?

The entire walk and ride home are a blur of the past taking over the present, and he's into the kitchen before he registers that he's home.

"Bright?"

Malcolm spins and finds Gil sitting at the countertop, a scratch of concern wrinkling his face. "You're home early," he notes because he can't find anything else to say. He didn't expect to have an audience before he had the opportunity to quiet his thoughts.

"I skipped the gym after therapy." Gil looks him over like he'll spot the cracks and frayed edges.

An unwelcome itch creeps under Malcolm's skin at the scrutiny. "I'll be upstairs." He heads in that direction before Gil can ask anything. A simple retreat that makes it blatantly clear he doesn't want to talk about the visit with his father.

Upstairs isn't far enough, his legs still restless with energy, so Malcolm goes further to the roof. He grabs his tennis ball from the corner and sits on the ground, tossing it at the opposite wall. The freezing weather isn't the best time for being up there, the ball hitting the brick with a dead _thunk_ and lazily thumping its way back. He has to be careful not to toss it too far left, or it'll end up in a snow pile.

His suit isn't the best outfit for the adventure, either. He might rough up the seat, leaving the jacket pantsless, which might as well be useless in his wardrobe. It also isn't warm enough, the cold snaking up through his bottom and into the rest of his body, leaving a shake behind where his stress used to be.

He reminds himself that coming to terms with the fact that the man that he loved, his father, also happens to be a murderer and doctor will bring him a peace that he hasn't been able to find anywhere else. _Thwacking_ the wall another time, he doesn't allow himself to consider the alternative.

It's going to work. He's tried every version of avoidance and it hasn't helped. There's nothing else to try.

"It's not so black and white, Malcolm," Gabrielle reminds him.

The tennis ball ends up in the snow pile, and he leaves it. He pulls out his phone, and his swipes take a couple attempts to register because his fingertips are so dry. The screen lights up with the green glow of night vision, his sleeping Sunshine with her head burrowed in her back taking up the middle as the camera automatically centers on her position.

She's safe under her cover until morning. Peaceful, having what he can only hope are pleasant parakeet dreams of snacking on broccoli and apple and zooming around the loft. He watches her for a few minutes, finding the same calm that she has. 

It's enough to get him moving again. He heads back inside, stopping by the upstairs bathroom to shed his suit and pull on spare lounge pants and a sweatshirt. None of it is warm enough, his body still shivering trying to raise his temperature, but it's the best he can do for now.

By the time he returns downstairs, Gil's already in bed, covers pulled up around his shoulders and cushioning his head. Malcolm slides in behind him and wraps his arms around Gil's middle.

"Hey," Gil says quietly. "You're freezing." He rubs Malcolm's arms. "You went outside?"

"Can I have a hug?" comes out needier than Malcolm intended.

Gil turns and pulls Malcolm into his chest, where Malcolm can listen to the steady beat of Gil's heart thumping against his ear. It's a tempo Malcolm can follow to keep from drifting on his own. "Didn't go so well with your dad?" Gil asks.

"Just swell," Malcolm says sarcastically.

Gil massages Malcolm's scalp with his fingertips, drawing lazy half-circles. It's as pleasant as going to the barber and getting a firm wash in the sink. "You know you don't have to do this," Gil tells him yet another time.

"I need to do it for me," Malcolm reminds him.

"I…"—Gil's fingers still while he thinks—"just want to make sure you have something left after."

"I have you." Malcolm rubs Gil's bare pec, plays with the definition from Gil's sternum to his armpit.

"You need to have you, too." Gil's arm slips down across Malcolm's shoulder.

"Always the pragmatist."

Logic isn't something that'll help Malcolm right now—he's too full of competing feelings that defy straightforward explanation. Logic would tell him to never see his father again. In practice, he knows avoidance doesn't lead to the intended effect—it just makes him feel worse, like he's abandoning the father he loved. Loves—that's why it hurts when they're distanced.

Right now, he'd rather replace his feelings of disappointment and betrayal with something positive than rehash them. Nuzzling Gil's neck, he feathers kisses up to Gil's ear, brushes them across Gil's cheek with the lightness of Sunshine's fluttering wings. He nips Gil's bottom lip, teasing and tugging the dry skin and slicking it with his tongue. Tasting his efforts, he locks their lips together and pushes against him. His belly floods with arousal, soaking in the reminder that being close with Gil is one of the best feelings he has.

It's easy to get lost smoothing his wandering hands over Gil's back, kneading firm muscles down to Gil's ass. Slipping a hand into Gil's boxers, he squeezes Gil's ass as he kisses him, his grip hard enough to leave behind fingertip bruises to relish for the next week. He's unsure which one of them will enjoy the bruises more, Gil pressing into them to relive how they were created or him flushing with arousal when he sees the evidence he left behind.

"Talk to me," Gil demands, pushing Malcolm's shoulder and rolling him so some of his weight settles against Malcolm's chest. He traces Malcolm's face with his hand and gives him a wet kiss that makes finding any words difficult. "Tell Daddy what you want," he instructs him, rubbing his thigh against Malcolm's hardening cock.

Malcolm cants his hips, chasing friction along his length. 'Anything that ends in Gil taking him apart,' doesn't seem like the answer Gil's looking for. The bit of weight leaning against Malcolm is pleasant—more would push away the anxiousness. "Fold me in half," he requests, slicking his bottom lip, hoping Gil can see the pink of his tongue in the streetlight. "Pound me with your fat cock."

Gil's length pokes into Malcolm's leg, and Gil's lips swallow any further words. Gil bats Malcolm's hand away as Malcolm reaches for Gil's shorts. Instead, Malcolm gets rewarded by his pants and boxer briefs disappearing, and he fumbles his sweatshirt over his head.

The sheets are chilly against Malcolm's back and each touch is fire against his cock. Kisses and licks line his length where Gil holds it against Malcolm's stomach, leaving Malcolm squirming for more contact. Lubed fingers tease his hole, and Gil's thumb rubs against his taint, relaxing him as Gil dips inside. Malcolm warms up as Gil fucks him with his fingers, the speed and thrust much easier to provide right now while Gil's body finishes healing.

Gil's fingers disappear, and he leans over Malcolm, kneeling on the bed. "Like this?" he asks, holding Malcolm's knees up to his shoulders and pushing his cockhead into him. The stretch barely registers compared to the desire thrumming under Malcolm's skin. "Is that what you need?" Gil checks in, nipping and running his goatee over the inside of Malcolm's knee.

Gil's weight on him is soothing, his cock moving within him ever so slowly. "More," Malcolm demands, urging him on.

"I can't do too much of this," Gil warns him, doubt creeping into his face.

"Just a minute, then we'll flip."

Gil's hips snap as he gives his all and pounds into Malcolm for a short clip. The beat races to catch up with the drumline demanding more, more as Gil gives him everything he asks for, hot and fast, blocking out all else. Malcolm's air comes in breathy pants as the thrum of Gil's hips winds him. "Use me," Malcolm begs. "Mark me as yours."

The prick of teeth digs into Malcolm's shoulder and Gil's hips slow to a grind. Gil's brow furrowed, Malcolm pushes at Gil's chest to roll over. He sinks on Gil's cock and rubs Gil's chest hair. "This okay?"

"So hot like this." Gil squeezes Malcolm's ass as Malcolm rolls onto Gil's cock again. "Keep that pretty mouth wet for me." He pushes two fingers into Malcolm's mouth, and Malcolm sucks at them, giving them the same attention as Gil's cock beneath him. "That's it." Gil uses his fingers to slick up Malcolm's cock.

Gil grips Malcolm's hips, and Malcolm feels him assert his control, squeeze his hands tight, and pull Malcolm down onto him. It's what Malcolm needs, the steady rock of Gil meeting him, jamming their hips together, knocking his thoughts away into the ether.

"Touch yourself. Show Daddy how good you are," Gil encourages him.

Gil's order pearls precome on Malcolm's cockhead, primed to slick along his length. Malcolm fists his cock, eager to comply with the demand, each stroke thrumming through him. His other hand slides through the sweat on Gil's chest, slicking Gil's nipples as wet as his cock. "So good, Daddy."

"Come for me," Gil demands, voice gruff with want. Malcolm tugs Gil's nipple and pinches it between his fingernails as his ears catch up to the desired action.

Malcolm beats off, aiming at Gil's chest, and slaps his cockhead against Gil's stomach as a buzz spreads from the base of his cock and he spills come. As his limbs and mind tingle, he gets rocked up several more times, Gil thrusting for release. Gil groans, his hips losing their rhythm and grip tightening as he comes. He pulls Malcolm into his chest, Malcolm's head rising and falling as they work through their heavy breathing.

Despite Malcolm's earlier jaunt outside, he's warm now, lax and drifting in emptiness. He'd be hard pressed to move anywhere, even if he had to.

"If you shift, I can get a washcloth," Gil offers, kissing Malcolm's temple.

"Uh-uh," Malcolm refuses, nuzzling Gil's chest.

"What's that yoga pose you like… sleepy baby?" Gil says against Malcolm's hair.

"Happy baby," Malcolm murmurs. "And that's only sometimes."

"Think now counts." Gil trails his fingers along Malcolm's back. The light touches are so soothing, Malcolm drifts into a lull.

Malcolm must've fallen asleep at some point, for he wakes shooting up in bed, yelling into the daylight, his mouthguard left forgotten on the nightstand. Gil unclips Malcolm's restraints and pulls him against his chest.

Panic remains, digging its wily claws into Malcolm's skin, but all of the traces of the nightmare's contents escape. Each time Gil's hand brushes through Malcolm's hair, it soothes Malcolm further. Malcolm's back rests against Gil's chest, all of Gil's body holding him in a comforting cocoon.

"I can't sit here all day," Malcolm concedes. It's not an effective coping mechanism to work through his fear.

"I mean, you _can_ ," Gil replies with a patience Malcolm has never possessed.

"I won't," Malcolm corrects himself. "I'm getting too needy."

"I think you're allowed to take a hug," Gil argues, voice skeptical of Malcolm's assertion.

"You know what I mean. I need to deal with this on my own." Malcolm's fear slips further away, leaving him sweaty and in need of a shower. Though Gil smells of the fresh soap of having gotten up last night, Malcolm still needs to wash away the remaining traces of sex.

"How is it going?" Gil broaches the topic that Malcolm has carefully avoided.

Malcolm lets it happen in their bubble. "Gabrielle is sick of putting up with me."

"What does that mean?"

"Last time, she asked me to consider another therapist. Again." The words prick into Malcolm's skin like they're ready for a second go at eviscerating him. She insisted his needs were outside of her area of expertise, and he needed someone who was better equipped. After infrequent access to her throughout quarantine because he found teletherapy unideal for his needs, he's afraid to lose her entirely. The words 'trauma specialist' left her mouth, prickling concern through his body that things might be worse than he thought. "Who knows what today will bring."

"And?"

"That's not an easy thing. Terrifying, actually." Malcolm can largely predict how Gabrielle will react, what things he can say to her, and what to avoid to keep himself out of trouble. She knows his history and doesn't need to ask for context or repetition. Anyone new, he's at zero starting all over again, at risk for divulging something he shouldn't.

"Do you think it would help?" Gil traces a line up and down the nape of Malcolm's neck.

"Just the thought of making all those calls makes me anxious, never mind starting over." Even talking about it right now raises his anxiousness, leaving him wringing his hands.

"I can help you call," Gil offers.

Though Malcolm knows Gil is always ready to help him with anything, Gil can't do this. "It doesn't really work that way," Malcolm says. "It's another one of those things…"

"You need to do yourself," Gil answers for him, his steadiness revealing his appreciation for Malcolm making the effort to handle it.

"Yeah. When I'm ready." Preferably never. Practically, he knows Gabrielle is going to force his hand, even if it comes to blocking his refills.

"Are you procrastinating?" There isn't any judgement in Gil's words, so Malcolm knows Gil's just trying to help him talk through it.

"A little. Some," Malcolm amends, tracing the tendons on the back of his hand.

"Like getting out of bed," Gil teases.

"I got caught in a venus flytrap," Malcolm jokes back.

Gil pulls him in closer and kisses his neck. "Who loves you very much."

"The fly fights back and makes it out." Malcolm squirms out of Gil's hold and scampers across the room, closing himself in the bathroom.

At work, Malcolm gets to keep to himself, buried in a case file. Arlo Jimenez was a carpenter working on a job site, building a new store in the subway. The scene hadn't had much disturbance beyond the man covered in blood, dark bleeds streaming out around him, origins pinpointed by silver nailheads. As Malcolm combs through the photos now, he doesn't spot signs of a drawn-out fight—no debris thrown around, no bashing or damage to other materials. Just Arlo's slight frame, on the ground with a myriad of defensive wounds on his hands and arms, head and back battered from trying to force his way out.

He struggled for a _long_ time—much longer than Endicott. No vital punctures until the murderer wanted. The man's chest stutters off of the page, vibrating with the same crackling that emanated from Endicott in his last breaths as they waited for an ambulance. Malcolm flips to the back of the file to quiet the disturbance. No witnesses, none of the crew there, supposedly, except the victim, until Dale found him.

It's Malcolm's job to figure out who is lying. Edrisa cheerily shared that the angles of the entry wounds were consistent with being nailed. At Gil's grumble and JT's glare, she amended that Arlo's wounds weren't self-inflicted. Memories of that day bring a small smile to his face as he flips through the autopsy report.

The last person who saw Arlo before he left for work was his boyfriend, Jamie Wells. Jamie and Arlo parted at the subway, and only one of them came home. It's either a worst nightmare for any relationship brought to life or a planned route through a very public place to impede investigation, leaving them with far too many cameras to go through to be practical. Jamie could've followed Arlo to work, waited for the opportunity for him to be alone, and released his anger on his boyfriend.

Arlo's entire shift was a long time to wait.

Maybe Jamie had two years of pent-up anger.

The information doesn't bode well for Dale or Jamie, for Dani spots Jamie on footage from the camera closest to the scene. "I told you we went our separate ways at the subway," Jamie reiterates when she questions him. She asks about his route through the subway and anywhere else he may have gone, but none of his answers are the breakthrough Malcolm is looking for.

They're boring, passing through Malcolm's mind as quickly as they enter. Malcolm ducks out and slips into the observation room as soon as he learns Gil called Dale back in.

Dale is none too pleased to see them. He stands stiffly in the interrogation room, emphasizing that this will be a quick conversation. Malcolm texts back and forth with JT while watching, admittedly distracted but passing the time.

"You said you didn't see anyone," Gil leans his hands on the table and takes another run at Dale.

"I didn't see anyone that morning when I called 911," Dale says slowly like Gil isn't comprehending something Dale is saying. "You asked me about leaving the day before, not arriving. And it's Jamie—I see Jamie all the time. That's nothing significant or out of the ordinary."

"A man is dead!" Gil raises his voice, which snaps Malcolm's eyes to him for a moment.

"My teammate! His boyfriend." Dale gestures at the door. "I _care_ that you find out what happened." He shakes his head. "I can't understand what you're asking."

Malcolm knocks on the door, and Gil excuses himself to the hallway. "It's not him," Malcolm comments.

Gil's brow furrows. "Why?"

"By the splatter pattern on the nail gun, the guy was using it in his right hand. More likely to use your dominant hand, and Dale is a lefty," Malcolm explains, pointing into the room.

Gil looks at Malcolm in confusion, rolling in his bottom lip as he works to comprehend what Malcolm said. "You're telling me you know he's a lefty from… what exactly?" He puts his hands on his hips and shifts his weight to one foot.

"I saw when he pointed." Gil squints his eyes at him, so Malcolm gives in, "Okay, okay. JT found he played baseball in school. Photos of him pitching online." Malcolm jiggles his phone with the text he got a few minutes ago.

Gil shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I already know you're smart. You don't need to embellish it."

"Then I'd miss the fun of you making that look," Malcolm teases and gives him an impish smirk.

Gil huffs and returns to the interrogation room. Dani and JT collect Malcolm a short time later, and they all work together in JT's office to compile a list of potential suspects smaller than the entire City of New York. Malcolm goes hours without seeing Gil while they work before the blinds in the conference room snap shut with a glimpse of Gil's sweater. Each time he sneaks a peek across to the conference room, the blinds are still closed, shrouding Gil from the rest of the precinct. Nearly an hour passes, something Malcolm's keenly aware of because he keeps checking his watch.

"Gonna take five," Malcolm says, heading for the door. No one responds, engrossed in what they're working on across JT's desk.

He walks to the conference room, gives two light raps with his knuckles, and lets himself in when he doesn't get an answer. 'Gil' is on his lips when he catches sight that no one's in the room. He does a lap around the table for good measure, but the room's just empty.

Pulling his phone out, he has no messages, no missed calls. He calls Gil, but doesn't get an answer. Texts _hey, where are you?_ and gets a one-word response— _home_. He's in the middle of typing when Gil adds _one of these weekends, we're installing blackout curtains_.

Gil has a headache. Malcolm doesn't bother replying 'be there soon,' for he knows that'll start an exchange Gil doesn't need if he felt bad enough to go home. Gil's made it very clear he can take care of himself, just as Malcolm has. Instead, Malcolm responds, _hope you feel better_ and goes back to the team.


	3. Chapter 3

A couple hours of sleep, and Gil can move without iron spikes driving into his head. He's grateful that maybe he was lucky to catch the headache early enough that he doesn't feel like he has a migraine. The headache is still there, but he's tired more than anything.

Since he's already home, he figures he'll use the time to try to practice one of his therapist-recommended activities—a diversion.

Easy enough to think about in practice, harder to follow through on. Gil has his car to care for, the occasional baseball game, cooking, work he brings home sometimes... They all leave plenty of time to worry about Bright, thinking he's somehow not doing enough.

Compassion fatigue, his therapist calls it. Spending a lot of time looking out for Bright, just like he'd devoted all of his time to caring for Jackie. Putting his own self-care on the back burner when he felt he needed to be there for them.

A while back, early on in their relationship, Bright appeared at the end of the couch and asked, "Can we talk?"

The words took a lot for Bright to share, to express he needed something. Gil looked over his reading glasses, anticipating something serious, yet covered his concern with, "What's up?"

Bright fidgeted at the end of the couch like he could peel back the leather and hide himself inside a cushion. Gil patted the empty space beside him, and Bright stiffly sat in it, keeping some distance between them. "I'm really grateful for everything you're doing for me. The meals, the laundry, the little things," Bright listed.

All of Gil's years on the force and with Jackie, he knew a windup when he saw one. " _Buuut_ …"

"I need some space." Bright looked at the floor, trying to find his answers in the swirls of the rug. "I'm feeling… Well, I'm not entirely sure what I'm feeling, but something like pressure, I guess? Some of these things I should just do on my own."

"Like?"

"I'll… split making dinner with you," Bright pulled an option out of the air. "Or maybe sometimes we could do it together."

"Okay."

"And… I don't need reminders." Bright hunched a little, like the act made him feel more childish. "If I don't ask, I can take care of it or deal with the consequences."

"Boundaries."

"Yeah."

Gil reached his hand across the cushion to squeeze Bright's knee. "You said you weren't feeling well, so I was trying to help. I'm sorry—guess I overdid it."

"I'm not." Bright rubbed his stomach that had been queasy for the past few days. "But that's some part of every day." He reached across the space on the couch and squeezed Gil's hand, his eyes finally coming up from the floor. "I'm gonna go for a run. I'll take care of dinner when I get back."

Bright explaining he felt suffocated put Gil on a fast track to getting some help managing his expectations, digging into some of his feelings that he had locked away since caring for Jackie. He met Ephram, a young man experienced in grief counseling whose enthusiasm reminds him of Bright and whose persistence is an even match to his own stubbornness. Bright always seems to be running from something, but talking with Ephram, Gil's working on not letting himself run with Bright sometimes.

The fact that Gil already had a therapy routine established when he was stabbed helped him to be able to talk about the trauma of being unable to protect his family. Sure, everyone else had gone physically unscathed that night, but Jessica, Ainsley, his Malcolm… they were all hurt. As much as his own side aches sometimes when he re-aggravates it, he can see the wounds seeping from the rest of his family, never to close.

It's tough as hell when he can't talk about it with his partner. Some days, Bright's too distraught himself to listen to Gil's feelings. Needs, his therapist calls them. Needs that Gil can put aside to help Bright.

But he shouldn't, not all the time. He knows this. Needs to be a bit better at meeting him halfway, just like Bright needs to be. Two halves drifting on their own sides, leaving only holes.

A diversion. Today's go is at making pastelitos, one of Jackie's favorite recipes. Bright won't touch them, so he'll be able to offer lunch to the team. It's not even that Bright would put a dent in them, it's that he's supposed to be doing something that's entirely for himself. He decided that feeding others is close enough.

His phone buzzes on the counter. He taps the speakerphone button while continuing to stir the filling so he doesn't end up with any chunks. "We get to go to the roof!" Bright cheers without any greeting. Whether it's excitement or mania, Gil's not entirely sure.

"We're getting called out?" Gil asks, eyeballing how much time he has left on cooking the ground beef and spice mix.

"Yep, this is your courtesy call. Probable second victim. Meet us there?" Then, Bright adds a hurried afterthought, "If you're up for it."

"JT okayed this late?" Gil's a little skeptical, even though he turns the stove off and starts transferring the prepared food to a glass bowl.

"Yep, he's the cool one."

"Smartass."

The filling goes in the fridge to finish folding into wrappers later. A quick change of clothes, and Gil follows the provided address to a high-rise across town. It's the first time Gil's seen Bright since the morning, and Bright's bouncing back and forth from foot to foot like he'll jump out of his skin if he stops moving.

"Word is we're walking up a hundred stories," JT tells Gil, stealing a glance over to Bright.

"Hope you wore your comfy shoes," Bright jokes.

"Says the guy with the wingtips." Gil squeezes the nape of Bright's neck. "Maybe it'll help us sleep."

"Maybe."

"You good?" Gil asks quietly, leaning into Bright's ear.

"Never better." Bright's wild grin looks back.

If never better came with a heavy dose of speed, Gil reckons. He swears the swing is somewhat predictable after Bright has gone to see Martin. Overcompensating. Coping with the fallout of seeing the man at the root of many of his traumas.

"You?" Bright counters.

"Headache passed."

"Boss, can I talk to you a minute?" JT requests. Gil and JT take several steps away from the rest of the team, ducking behind one of the walkway pillars leading to the building. "What do I do if backup doesn't arrive?" JT asks him in a hushed voice. "Ground support disappeared before we got here. Two unis out front report everyone else left after they cleared the building."

Gil frowns at hearing the information that is counter to protocol. "You called them back?"

JT nods and picks up his radio. "Squad Central, this is Detective Tarmel with the 1-6 requesting an ETA on that backup."

Static comes over the radio, followed by, "This is a prank call—"

"You're speaking with the acting head of Major Crimes." JT's voice carries the exhaustion of being unheard. "We are in need of backup to safely proceed with our murder investigation."

The officer on the line prattles on with his charade, his words crushing footsteps on their backs. Gil pulls out his own radio and growls, "Squad Central, this is Lieutenant Arroyo with the 1-6, requesting immediate backup. When we call, you come." Ire rises hot on his neck as the officer chatters on as if Gil isn't serious.

JT follows Gil's lead and attempts Gil's tactic again, hardening his voice a little. "Squad Central, this is the acting head of Major Crimes. It doesn't matter _who_ on this squad calls, first day on the job to someone about to retire—you _come_. That's our job."

Laughter comes over the line like the whole conversation has been a fucking joke. Had they been in danger, they could've been dead by now. "Backup en route," the officer flippantly responds.

Gil puts his radio away and takes a deep breath to focus on the job they still need to do, fighting back the urge to call and rage at their boss right that instant. "You handled that well, JT."

A frown digs deep into JT's face, the betrayal of the stunt lingering. "That ever happen to you?"

"Yeah." Gil considers how to frame the occurrences to his mentee for the information to be practical. "Some officers were frustrated when I became the Lieutenant. Took every opportunity they could to tell me I wasn't fit for the job I earned but didn't ask for." He rests his hand on JT's shoulder in a supportive grip. "You are deserving of this job." He pauses a moment, locking eyes with JT to ensure his point sinks in before he removes his hand. "Don't let this racket leave you questioning that. I can show you the incident report to file when we get back."

"I'm familiar with that one." The shadow of the number of times JT's had to fill it out clouds his eyes. "We're on a first name basis."

Keys gone missing, coffee tampered with, office supplies strewn in their spaces. Different reports, but nonetheless documenting their fellow officers' harassment in their workplace that they haven't been able to trace back to anyone based out of their precinct. "Two more weeks." Gil claps JT's back in support.

"That does not mean this will stop," JT says firmly.

"You're right. Does mean accountability for their actions."

"Maybe. You can't promise that."

"Also right. That's why you're in charge." Though Gil meant it as a joke, he stops himself from saying anything more, for JT isn't, technically, and he doesn't get paid for the additional responsibility, either. He doesn't want JT to think he's making light of a trying situation.

They rejoin the team, and Dani gives JT a questioning, raised eyebrow. "Issue with getting backup out here, but it's taken care of," JT explains.

"What's it going to take for someone to pay attention that there's a problem here?" Dani scoffs, kicking the ground. "At this rate, this job is going to get us killed."

"I thought about quitting." JT scratches his beard. "But I realized it wouldn't change anything. So we're gonna wait for backup to get here, thank the officers out front who supported us and did their jobs, and hit the stairs."

"That's the best plan we have?" Dani looks to Gil, challenging the stated approach.

"The scene isn't about to come to us," Gil responds, knowing full well that's not what she's talking about. "We'll deal with the rest at the precinct. After."

When backup arrives, Dani walks ahead of them, grumbling to JT. The stairs are their only option, for the building is still under construction. Gil is fairly certain his doctor and physical therapist would nix this level of activity, but he keeps his mouth shut and pushes onward. It's something more interesting than the paperwork he worked on to document who had access to the nail gun before he headed home, than even the food he was preparing. They make it up about twenty-five flights before a steady huffing and puffing echoes off the concrete column they're inside of.

"Maybe it should have been twenty bucks for whoever makes it to the top," Dani teases. At least she's back to joking now, whatever JT said to her seeming to have helped.

"Powell, keep moving," JT grouses and looks behind him. "Sticks, you good?"

"I am not tall," Bright rebuts.

"You prefer Twiggy?"

"Or female." Bright dances in front of Gil at the rear. "It's all about stamina, keep a steady pace—"

"We got it," JT cuts off another lecture about how to most efficiently walk up the stairs.

"Can't help your steady is my snail," Dani calls, echoing through the stairwell. Gil can't see her, but he'd bet another twenty there's a smirk on her face.

Bright takes off running up the stairs, presumably to catch her.

A persistent throb builds in Gil's side as they make the long trek up into the night. It reminds him he's lucky to be alive.


	4. Chapter 4

When does Malcolm get to stand on top of a building and look a hundred stories down, uninhibited? There's a steel frame, yet no glass. Only police tape keeps him from the very edge.

Would it feel like flying?

"Please stay back," Gil says, squeezing Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm complies, turning away from the flapping police tape. "Everyone, careful at the perimeter," Gil warns the whole group.

The view out across the skyline is a lot more interesting than the body. It's a fact that leaves Malcolm confused, wondering if this will whet his appetite for a case. It's the second victim murdered with a nail gun, and his psyche reminds him that any kind of saw would be more exciting.

Revising the murders? As if he could somehow make the victims more dead? Reanimate them and give it a second go? "What have we got, Edrisa?" he asks before he can get himself in trouble.

"A good day of cardio," she jokes with a wide smile. "Not for him, though. More like cardi-owww—multiple projectiles shot into his chest at close range, just like the other victim. A lot of blood streaming out of the wounds—he was alive for a long time."

Malcolm slicks his hair back and straightens his coat and jacket, his shirt underneath sticking to him with sweat. "He knew the person." A killer who sought revenge of some sort, taking pleasure in watching his victims' suffering. Someone strong enough to hold down a 250-pound man while firing nails at close range, to keep him restrained during the excruciating aftermath. "Signs of a struggle?"

"Yes. Defensive wounds on his hands." Edrisa shines her flashlight on his torn fingernails. "Abrasions on his head and back. Only been dead about three hours."

Malcolm envisions the man flailing against the concrete, trying to use any leverage to buck the assailant off of him. Jiu-jitsu would have worked for someone of any size, even the smaller first victim. A chainsaw would have been faster for the murderer, the blade gutting the victim before there could have been any defense.

"Bright?" Edrisa's voice brings him out of his thoughts.

"I was admiring the placement of the nails." Malcolm waves his hand over the victim's chest. "There don't seem to be any dropped on the ground."

"I asked if you thought the murderer might be a sadist." Edrisa looks at him with slight confusion.

"Definitely."

"This again?" JT grouses.

"All of the shots are into his chest. You're sitting on the victim, holding them down while they furiously buck to get you off, and you don't go for the head and neck? Soft tissues like the eyes, inside of the mouth, straight into the carotid—all places that would end this fast and get you away from the scene. He wanted to watch them suffer, see the blood drip out of them, hear the aching rattle as their lungs collapsed, and control the moment when enough nails into the heart would end it." Malcolm breathes a little faster from the exhilaration of rattling off the case details.

The rest of the team stares back at him in silence. " _He_ wanted to watch, not _me_ ," Malcolm emphasizes. "We already covered this—I have masochistic tendencies."

"Team checked the scene for semen, well, any bodily fluids"—Edrisa tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles a little—"but we didn't find anything. Of course it doesn't have to be sexual." She meets Malcolm's eyes with a dazed grin.

"This building also owned by the Nicholas Endicott Trust?" Gil asks, interrupting their path of conversation. Malcolm turns to see him leaning heavily against the steel frame Gil keeps directing everyone else to stay away from. Gil's coat is open, airing out from the climb.

"The one and only," JT responds.

"We really walked a hundred flights for that?" Malcolm scoffs, backing away from the group.

"A man is dead," Edrisa scolds, leveling her gaze at him. "Respect at my scene."

"You don't want to piss off The 'Dreese," Dani jokes.

"I'll look around." Malcolm turns away, entranced by the lights from the nearby skyscrapers that provide glimpses of others' lives. Many empty office spaces, workers still not back inside since the pandemic. The occasional person watching TV, standing in a kitchen, staring back out at him.

Who would go to all this work to murder someone? The top of a high-rise, the depths of a subway tunnel. Places where only the assigned crews tend to pay attention. He and Ainsley could have disposed of Endicott's body through a subway tunnel, provided a different ending to that travesty. Both versions ended with the same outcome—Ainsley free. He…

"Bright?" Dani calls, and he jumps a little, squirming to cover his nervousness as he looks out over the edge. "Something bothering you?"

"What? No, nothing." He smiles more easily than he should be able to.

"You look like you'd be more comfortable if you fell off." She keeps looking in the direction of the edge.

"You're not wrong…"—Malcolm shrugs, gesturing his hands out to the side—"but we probably shouldn't talk about that."

She walks a bit closer to him. "You can."

"Not at work."

"You seem a little scattered—"

His eyes dart around to check if anyone is listening to their conversation. "Not _here_."

"Lounge after work on Thursday," she pushes, not letting it drop. "You can give me a chance to throw the new axes you keep talking about."

He hasn't even gotten to throw them yet. All steel, they're built for throwing practice, but he hasn't found the chance to get any in. "I have to see my father," he argues.

"Tea, then. On break. Whatever day you feel like," she persists, eyes focused on him, warning he won't find a way out of meeting up with her.

Malcolm tips his head down to his chest in agreement. It seems like the sort of thing where 'no' won't be an acceptable answer. She must be satisfied with the response, for she walks away, leaving him alone with the skyline again.

He squeezes his hand even though it's still, wishing he could keep himself in check if he held himself tight enough. Wishing he could stop the flashes of what could have been, stop the swing from wanted to menace, stop the perception he's not well enough to do his job. A blade drops out of his fingers and falls over the edge with Endicott's existence.

Something touches Malcolm's shoulder and he jumps a mile in the air, adrenaline racing through him. He double-checks his proximity to the edge and looks for the gleam of a knife in the night but finds nothing. He turns to both of Gil's hands out to his sides in apology.

"Sorry," Gil says, curling his fingers in like he's stopping himself from reaching out. "Was trying to say, let's go, kid."

Malcolm takes a deep breath, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. Nothing. "Okay."

Only the night knows his fears, can see the darkness inside of him sawing its way out. The entire walk back to the street, he holds on tight to the railing so a misstep doesn't leave him plunging into Lake Peipus, where Endicott could have been if he listened to his father. If he left his inner struggles untethered.

The walk down feels so much narrower, lacking banter from the rest of the team. He doesn't recognize the impact at first, but then his breaths start to wheeze and spot his vision. He misses the front of a step and stumbles, recovering by sitting down. He's in more trouble than he realized.

"Kid?" Gil's voice comes from in front of him.

Malcolm rests his forehead on his knees and breathes slowly into the material, picturing the street that waits for them outside. In the wee morning hours in the cold, there are likely few people. There is plywood in front of the building, obstructing its full beauty from the street. They'll walk to Gil's car, and Gil will take him for the short drive home. Thinking through the city that awaits outside, he counts breaths into his pants. "Just a minute. Winded," he explains. Which is true, just not for the reason walking down so many flights of stairs would imply.

"If the doc knew how much exercise I got today, I don't think he'd be very happy with me."

"You okay?" Malcolm tilts his head so he can see Gil's face where Gil leans against the wall.

"Sore." Gil rests his arm over his middle. "You look like you'd be happy to be back on the street."

Malcolm smirks. "It was easier with a case to look forward to."

"Always is, isn't it."

Malcolm takes out his phone and pops up his app to check on Sunshine but frowns when he sees he doesn't have any service. He's left pulling up a picture of her instead, Gil's eyes peering between the bars in a photobomb. Smirking, he puts his phone away.

"What's funny?" Gil asks.

"You." Malcolm smiles. He pushes to his feet and grips the railing again, reestablishing steadier footing. Gil follows and they continue the descent more slowly. "Pretty big list of people to talk to for this scene, I figure," Malcolm says. Now that there are two victims, they'll need to work to determine what connects them.

"Will be fun for you, I think. Narrowing down the sea to a few potentials."

"To one."

"That's you being cocky."

"Me? Never."

Their chatter makes things a little more bearable as they make it back to ground level. They stand on the street a few minutes, breathing in the fresh air before heading to Gil's car. Was this how the murderer exited the building? Probably not—it's more visible than Malcolm would want if he just killed someone.

"You would've used the subway tunnels," his father reminds him. "Like you did as a kid."

Malcolm shivers at the chill running through his frame that doesn't respond to wrapping his peacoat tighter around him. Gil turns the heat on full blast as soon as they get in the car, but that doesn't help, either.

Malcolm stares off into the distance as Gil drives, the blend of lights creating the appearance of fireflies blinking past faster than Malcolm can see them. He can't jar the present, can't grasp it for a few moments to see how it feels. It just flies by, disappearing into the night before he even realizes what's come and gone.

When the fastest street to get to their loft passes as well, he looks over at Gil in surprise.

"I promised everyone breakfast," Gil tells him.

Malcolm checks his watch. "More like a late night snack."

"I need your good listening ears tonight, Bright," Gil warns him. His boss-like tone is a touch excessive—Malcolm listens well… when necessary.

"This morning," Malcolm corrects him.

" _Bright_ —"

"I got it." Malcolm sets his joking aside. "This about the backup? Or lack thereof?"

"Yes."

"What are we going to do?" Malcolm asks.

"JT and I are calling the Captain first thing in the morning," Gil relays, grumbling under his breath in a way that reveals he'd rather wake him up tonight, "but we're all going to talk about what we'll do as a team to support JT."

Malcolm cycles through the various options he's thought about before and settles into what Gil said, knowing he'll need to hear everyone else's thoughts. They weren't in a place to talk about it on scene, but Gil had promised they could all talk after. Gil apparently decided on the diner instead of the precinct. A more relaxed atmosphere. An acknowledgement of getting called out late and wanting to check in on how everyone is doing before they head home.

They arrive first and set their coats over the back of the booth they are led to. Gil ducks into the inside of the booth and Malcolm sits beside him, unbuttoning his suit jacket to air out from the descent from the high-rise. The waitstaff gives them menus, but they don't need them, both of them having standard orders when they're out with the team at the diner.

Before Malcolm gets a chance to ask Gil what he's thinking, Dani slides into the booth across from them. "I brought Edrisa along with me—her team is impacted by this too," she explains.

Edrisa slides in next, leaving JT on the end. "Breakfast with the team! This is really cool!" she responds, more awake than most of them. Malcolm wonders if she's relying on energy drinks again, or if she's just excited to have the rare opportunity to spend time with them.

"I'm not really sure what meal you call this," Malcolm comments, gesturing at the menus.

"Breakfast," JT says confidently. "We're at the diner—it's breakfast."

"Do you want to split?" Gil asks Dani, and she nods.

"Could I get in on that too?" Edrisa asks with glee. "She told me in the car."

"Sure," Gil agrees.

They all place their orders, and they're left with hot tea and coffee. JT holds his coffee like a talisman, sipping it while it's too hot and inhaling the steam. "Backup took off because of me," he explains, clenching his mug. "Because of someone's beef with me," he amends before any of them can argue it's not his fault. "Gil knows the detail and Dani and I got into it on the walk up, but I wanted to talk to everyone at the same time."

As JT pauses, confirming that he has everyone's attention, Malcolm realizes that team breakfast was JT's idea, and Gil's promise to them was a lesser role, likely paying. Malcolm stretches his fingers and takes a deep breath in an attempt to clear profiling from his mind for the time being and focus on active listening.

Seemingly satisfied everyone is present in the conversation, JT continues, "When we called for backup again, the officer wouldn't listen to me, wouldn't listen to Gil, and their C. O. was less than helpful. We'll be on the phone with the Captain first thing in the morning." He looks toward Dani in an indication he's done speaking.

"JT and I were talking about how this has turned into a serious safety issue," Dani explains, hands separating on the table as to how large of a problem it is. "And I'm going to put that in writing for JT's review."

"We all can do that," Edrisa adds, eager to help. "My team and I ended up getting left alone on the roof. Had there been any trouble, we were missing the minimum standard of support. Not like anyone could run up those stairs in seconds."

Malcolm considers how long Edrisa's team may have been up there by themselves. It took them a while to climb up. If the suspect remained close by… He recenters on listening, needing to stay present in what everyone has to say.

"There is video evidence of their insubordination," JT points out. "We already have the footage. Even if it doesn't prove fruitful for our investigation, it demonstrates the officers leaving the scene. Central will have audio of the call conduct."

"We could also talk about the delay impeding our investigation," Gil offers. "Language the brass cares about."

Malcolm shivers as it irks him that JT's safety and the team's safety doesn't seem to draw the same level of concern. Regardless, they can use their superiors' interests to their advantage.

"Your letters of support would mean a lot to me," JT says quietly, looking across the whole group. "If there's something you want to do to help"—he locks eyes with each one of them in turn, the sadness that hides in JT's eyes etching into Malcolm's soul—"I would appreciate that."

Malcolm catalogues what JT asked for, noting it's a simple and impactful thing to give—he could probably take care of it when he gets home. He halts the temptation to jump into thinking about what he'll write and joins the team in nodding and humming their agreement.

"You didn't do anything wrong, JT," Dani reminds him. She purses her lips and looks to Gil, across from her. "When do we say enough is enough and call the mayor?" she asks calmly. It's not something Malcolm has brought up, that tactic more his mother's style, and he knows it wouldn't be a welcome suggestion. But if the team is asking...

JT shakes his head. "Right now, it'll do more harm than good. We go outside on this, we all risk losing our jobs," he declines the suggestion and looks to Gil. "I have a C. O. who took my complaint seriously. Didn't retaliate against me. That's better than many other officers in my position get."

"The officer in charge of investigating harassment claims engaged in abhorrent, racist behavior, and we're supposed to believe this is all just going to work itself out?" Dani counters, frustration leaking into her voice. She leans toward JT, her concern for helping him clear in her pinched brow. "This bullshit is part of why some officers are hesitant to report." Underneath her words, Malcolm can hear the 'what's next,' the lack of confidence in the department if something else were to happen to JT. To another friend on the team. To her. The acknowledgement that it could get worse.

JT mirrors Dani, leaning toward her and sandwiching Edrisa in the middle. "I was hesitant to report," he admits, his fingers twitching on the table. "The level of hatred some officers have shown… it's a poison." He takes a breath, keeping the virulence out of his system. "Gil believed me, but this would have been an open and shut investigation if everyone else did." The trust that JT put in the department over his tenure hadn't reflected back to him when he needed its support. The hurt of departmental inaction against the retaliation plays on his face now in the tension around his eyes. "I'm not opposed to using the privilege if we need to, but we're… I'm not there yet."

"You could do what we did in college," Edrisa suggests, and Dani and JT give her some space. "Bombard Employee Relations with complaints so they're forced to take action. Tell them our teammate is being targeted."

"What stops them from seeing JT as the issue?" Dani asks.

"Us," JT firmly responds, gesturing toward Gil. "Anyone on the team can submit a complaint, and we're all here to support you. If you get pushback, come to us, and we'll help work through it."

The whole team looks around the table, gauging if JT has anything else to say. To Malcolm, it sounds grueling to manage what JT's working through, balancing his needs with the team's, but asking JT about it further seems more a curiosity than a benefit to JT. It's a hesitant few moments of microexpressions between the team while they each assess whether everyone has said their piece.

Gil leans into the table, and Malcolm catches a faint hint of a wince. "I didn't report the harassment against me when I became the Lieutenant," Gil shares, glancing at the table a moment before looking back up. "If I complained, I thought I would lose the position. Some officers were overlooked for promotion or got the worst assignments after reporting." He looks to JT. "Over time, I learned none of the behavior changed without intervention."

"There's a pattern of officers recording incidents happening on the job, and even with that evidence, they're still not being addressed efficiently or effectively. I have video, audio, and multiple eye-witness accounts, and someone still thinks I'm at fault for getting held outside their loft." JT rubs his brow. "This discrimination isn't going to stop without action from the department." He sighs, the weight of the incidents pushing from his eyes down into his cheeks. "I struggle to fight this sometimes, and I definitely don't know the answers, but I'm here to work with you if you're struggling." He gestures diagonally across the table to Gil. "And he's got our back. That makes a big difference."

Gil takes the compliment with a quiet nod. Malcolm rubs Gil's knee in silent support. He knew Gil had it rough when he was promoted, even heard a taste of some of Gil's fellow officers' frustration through Detective Shannon, but he's not familiar with the details. Gil squeezes Malcolm's hand and lets go, and Malcolm retracts into his own space.

"Whatever you need, JT." Dani looks over to JT. "We'll take the cue from you."

JT nods. "Breakfast," he responds with a small smile. Dani squints her eyes to tease him in return, and the two of them share a moment of support.

The seriousness of their conversation transitions into what they're going to do when they get home and who was the best at climbing the skyscraper stairs. Malcolm and Dani playfully argue over who made it to the roof first, only to have Edrisa point out that she beat all of them to the top.

"Vegetable omelet, short stack, sausage, egg, and cheese," the waitstaff announces, cutting off their charade by setting plates in front of Dani, Edrisa, and JT. "Be right back with the rest."

Gil fidgets and resettles in the booth beside Malcolm. "Do you need to get out and stretch?" Malcolm quietly asks him.

"Can I have the outside?" Gil requests. "Sorry."

Malcolm lets Gil out and slides into the inside. Gil goes for a walk toward the back of the diner, hands resting at his stomach and lower back. Watching Gil move gingerly, legs tentatively taking their next steps, Malcolm wonders how much pain Gil's in yet hasn't mentioned.

"Lumberjack breakfast for you." The waitstaff sets a plate in front of Malcolm, much to everyone's amusement, and departs after they let them know there isn't anything else they need.

"Might as well leave it there for the moment, anyway, 'cause we're all splitting the sides." Dani gestures to Edrisa.

"Take all you want," Gil tells them, sitting beside Malcolm, ham, eggs, and bacon disappearing onto their plates. Once they're done, Malcolm trades Gil for his bagel and cream cheese.

Malcolm rubs Gil's lower back, conveying some comfort while they eat, as their friends laugh and talk about quick-solving Rubik's cubes. "All math," JT reiterates, excitedly talking about a new ten-sided puzzle to solve with Edrisa.

They'll need to go home at some point, but these moments as some of the only patrons inside the diner, they feel like a tight-knit family, supporting each other.


	5. Chapter 5

Bright works at his desk, talking to the walls and the air, pacing as if Gil can't see him in the next room. Or maybe it doesn't matter to him, the truth welcome to live in the midday light.

Bright's having a hard time.

That isn't something that needs to live behind shuttered blinds and closed doors. His chatter makes it into the hallway and whispers of his tone drift into the conference room. His frown creases the ground between the two with every step, gesticulating hands forming a piece only Bright sees.

He's working. Not disturbing anybody. Not asking for anything. Gil can admit he's keeping an extra eye out because of inside information and that it's better for him to give space before checking in like he does for anyone on the team. The knowledge that Bright has had two very rough conversations with his therapist and isn't sleeping has him more attentive, attuned to every change in behavior.

He's managing. Though Gil finds it remarkable, a small feat given how little rest Bright's gotten, he also knows it's a day-to-day reality, something more intrusive than beneficial to call out. Bright is doing his job, one of the few things that he consistently seems to want, and his results are up to par. There isn't a problem.

That they need to talk about inside these walls, at least.

Bright strides away from his desk and heads for the exit. Another walk. Three so far.

There isn't a switch Gil can flip to turn his partner hat off for a little while to only look at Bright as a team member in the department. He wouldn't trust himself to hit it anyway.

The day Gil transitioned his first management responsibilities to JT, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He was no longer responsible for managing Bright's schedule or disciplining him at work. It stopped putting him in a weird position of partner and boss, allowing him to focus on his more important role of partner. His job is incredibly important to him, but it doesn't need to, and frankly shouldn't, include managing his significant other. He technically still has team oversight, but that should've changed already.

It also marked the healthy transition that on days Bright is struggling, Gil needs to take a step back and leave him to work through it himself. To wait for Bright to reach out to one of them if he wants and be okay if he doesn't.

Gil's not that good at that. But he needs to be for their relationship to be fair, to be respectful to his partner. He promised not to take away Bright's agency and interfere.

So he sits in the conference room, sipping a cup of coffee and finishing the reports he owes to JT's desk that cover the nail guns that were standard equipment at both job sites, heavily favoring his side that is agitated from the previous evening's expedition. He'll keep calling it JT's desk until the department forces them to shift things back, and if that happens, Gil has a decision to make—side with his friend and what is right or… there is no alternative. His mind's already made up.

He might be the Lieutenant in title, but the C. O. Detective Squad job is JT's. Everything was in motion until it came to a screeching halt when JT was accused of assaulting another police officer. The whole team worked together to support JT defending himself and keeping his job, but the process of getting him promoted has been akin to screaming into a black hole. They're all left waiting in a weird limbo of two leaders—what is and what may never be.

It's too familiar to Gil. An excuse not to recognize his most seasoned detective for his merit. Accusations that he was promoted for almost getting himself killed by The Surgeon, to fill a diversity quota. Issues that Gil is still dealing with all these years later trying to defend his team in a broken system, his voice somehow less heard.

He stays out of the office that says Lieutenant Gil Arroyo, C. O. Detective Squad, in protest. They might've taken down the temporary plaque for JT, but they can't force Gil to convene in the space. He and JT have an understanding, and he plans to keep it that way.

That means Bright, who is now back, wildly gesticulating on the phone, nearly yelling about the lack of information on their potential suspects, is JT's managerial jurisdiction.

"Hey, can we go for a walk?” Bright pops his head into the conference room and asks, shifting foot to foot. He looks suspiciously like a child requesting permission to go to the bathroom.

Gil was wrong. This one's on him. He pops up from the table, bites back a wince, grabs his coat, and walks with Bright out of the precinct. They're already outside when Gil realizes Bright doesn't have his coat, but Bright doesn't seem fazed by it. Bright's off and chattering before Gil even needs to ask 'what's up, kid.'

"Talk to me about anything to distract me,” Bright requests, hands moving while he talks. "Anything.”

Gil's mind is an instant blank, then he latches onto the first thing that pops in. "I think we might be able to put a beehive in the garden.”

"There are roughly 400 species of bees native to New York. The most common are digger bees, then some above-ground ones. Rooftop would be honey bees," Bright rambles a stream of information like an encyclopedia. Gil wonders if any of the facts tap the tumblers to unlock calming properties.

"I don't think I'd make a good beekeeper.” Gil frankly has no idea what job he will do when he's forced to retire from the NYPD.

"I don't make a good blacksmith, either, but JT and I are going next week anyway. We don't need to be good—we just need to try.”

"What did you do with my partner?” Gil teases, slinging an arm across the middle of Bright's back. Even the typical arm movement sends an ache through his side that he grits his teeth to contain.

"Something about balance or something.” Bright contorts his lips and brow to make a silly face.

"Any special requests for dinner tonight?” Gil goes for the next thing he can think of.

"I think I'm okay now.” Bright breathes out a lengthy sigh and tugs on the hair at the back of his neck. "Sorry… having a hard time with anxiousness.”

"Anything in particular?”

Bright squirms, one shoulder peaking, then the other following in some haphazard dance of unrest. "No. I can't figure it out.”

Gil's not entirely sure that's truthful, but he gives Bright the benefit of the doubt that maybe the pieces haven't come together for him yet out of the mess of too many different jigsaw puzzles jumbled together.

"Are you okay?” Bright asks. "You're not moving so good.”

Gil's side aches, the movement only serving to remind him that he failed to respect his limits. He's worried about Bright failing at the same damn thing himself. "Overdid it. Will take care of it at home.”

"You can go now.”

"You can too.”

"The un-winnable battle,” Bright jokes and puts his hands in his pockets. "We talked to the first on scene, Bryan Truitt. Having a hell of a time trying to get information on the workers.”

"Mostly open shop work now.”

"Yes. Operations is concerned about worker safety if they release the information.”

Gil wishes the department would care more about their safety. "That's a good thing.”

"Doesn't help us,” Bright argues.

"I feel like this is one of those times that's okay.” Bright's shoulders sink at the answer he doesn't want to hear, so Gil details, "Establish trust, maybe with a small subset to start, and work with JT to go from there.”

"I just need their names,” Bright emphasizes in frustration. "The last place was a lot easier.”

"First scene was smaller. They don't know you,” Gil changes tactics. "If someone asked you for our names out of the blue, you wouldn't give them.”

"No one died here, either,” Bright quibbles, not straying from his point.

Gil rolls his eyes and knocks on the frame of the window in passing. "Let's not chance that, alright?”

They're barely back in the precinct half an hour before Edrisa calls them down to the morgue. The whole team stands around the table, Bright up close to Edrisa and the deceased while the rest of the team hangs back around the edges.

"Only had to get one can of Monster into me so far today,” Edrisa shares, bubbly as ever. "Hopefully that holds out. How about you, Bright?”

"None for me. Gives me the shakes, and I don't need any more of that.” Bright smirks back at her. "COD what we expect?”

"Penetrating trauma to the heart. Pulled fifty-one nails out of him,” she reports.

"So no count fetish.” Bright's lips purse like that's a disappointment.

"No. Thirteen more than the last victim.”

"Depressants? Any other impairments?”

"No.”

"Guy held him down on strength alone,” JT notes, confirming Edrisa's information with a bit of wonderment.

"Bruising around his abdomen and hips supports that,” Edrisa shares. "Also bruising on his neck and arms.”

"Consistent with carotid restraint.” Bright points to the victim's neck.

"He could have been unconscious for part of it, yes,” she confirms.

"Before the murderer started?” Dani suggests.

Edrisa looks to Dani and responds, "Potentially. Can't say for sure. No signs of stroke. His defensive wounds are consistent with being conscious on the ground for some of the time. His head and back have significant abrasions and bruising.”

"Any ID yet?” Gil asks.

"CSU has his phone,” Edrisa says. "You'll have to check with them. Didn't have anything else on his person.”

"Robbery?” Dani looks to Gil, then JT.

"Maybe he's all digital,” Bright suggests. "There wasn't anything missing from the other victim.”

"The other victim wasn't on top of a one-hundred story building,” Gil returns.

"Could be different perpetrators,” Dani considers.

"Not likely,” Gil counters. "Hasn't been on the news and MO is the same.”

"But some aspects are different, so it's a possibility,” she counters.

Gil sighs and holds his side as the team continues bantering possibilities. They're all offering viable options and useful suggestions to run down, but nothing is converging in a similar direction. There are now two people dead, and they don't have a solid lead as to who may have had motive to kill them.

By the time Gil makes it home, he can't stay on his feet anymore, the pain in his stomach leaving him lightheaded with an auditory aura that drones out all the sound in the room. He drops into bed and doesn't stir until he hears Bright's keys hit the bowl inside the front door.

Bright lays the heat pack Jackie made across Gil's stomach, the well-worn, hand-stitched fabric stretching from one side to the other. It's wide enough to cover a six-inch swath above Gil's navel to try to bring him some relief.

"Kid—" Gil says, catching Bright's wrist.

"What is it?” Bright asks, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.

"It's not enough.” Gil's abdomen aches underneath, throbbing the message down to his hip and up to his ribs like his whole body needs to know about it.

"Electro pack?” Bright suggests, moving to fish it out of the nightstand drawer before Gil even responds. He attaches the sticky-back pads for him under the heat pack. "Two, three?” he asks, fingers on the dial.

"Three to start,” Gil says, hoping it'll give him some level of relief so he can move or even think about something other than pain.

Bright turns the dial and Gil groans at the pulses that buzz into his abs. "Too much?”

"Leave it.” 

Bright slides the controls under Gil's fingers.

Gil pauses, takes a deep breath, and holds it in an attempt to center himself. "Can you get my phone?”

Bright complies, retrieving it from the nightstand. "Who do you need?"

"JT."

At Gil's reply, Bright taps to dial, puts on speakerphone, and sets the phone on the bed.

"Hey, boss,” JT says.

"Pretty sure that's you, Tarmel."

JT chuckles. "What's up?"

"Giving you a heads up—gonna be out tomorrow. Overdid it with the stairs."

"Alright. Take it easy. Let us know if you need anything."

"Will do. Call me if the water starts rising."

Gil hangs up and Bright tucks the phone into the nightstand drawer. "Do you want your pills?” Bright asks.

"Yes.”

"Is there anything else I can get you?” Bright calls as he retrieves Gil's pills from the bathroom. Bright comes back out when Gil doesn't answer and pauses in thought beside Gil. Gil reaches for the pills and downs them dry.

"Go play with Sunshine or something, kid." Something that doesn't involve whatever Bright's look is and the thoughts that must be churning behind it.

"Gonna lay with you." Bright removes his dress shirt and pants and gets into bed beside him.

"You don't have to."

"I know." Bright rubs his head against him just like Sunshine. "Let me take care of you for a little bit.”

Gil doesn't remind him that Bright doesn't like to be fussed over, doesn't remind him that the level of concern in his eyes isn't necessary, especially not now. He lets Bright curl in beside him and embraces the combination of remedies that finally give him some relief.


	6. Chapter 6

Tapping comes from the side of Malcolm's desk, and he pops his head up from a case file to find Dani. "CSU got an ID," she explains. "Felix Castillo. We can split up doing more background on him. But first"—she points toward the door—"tea time."

"You're not gonna let me skip, are you?" Malcolm states, already knowing the answer.

"Nope." She quirks her lips. "Let's go."

Dani leads Malcolm further than their usual stop for tea, tipping him off that it's not going to be a short, easy conversation. The small deli has picnic tables inside painted bright white to match the all white aesthetic of the floor and walls. They squeeze onto the end of one table, Dani eating an egg sandwich and Malcolm nursing mint tea.

"Can we be real with each other?" she asks. A couple bites into her sandwich already, Malcolm wonders if she will devour it before he answers. He can't even eat Twizzlers that fast.

"When have we ever held back?" He grips the warm cup tighter between his hands. Dani squints at him, so he adds, "Yes."

"Do you recognize you've been a little…"—she tilts her hand back and forth—"unpredictable?"

"Yes. Usually not until after." Sometimes it's because his limits disappear when he disassociates. Sometimes he's bursting with so much energy, he's already done the thing before he remembers he's not supposed to.

"You remember we're a team?"

Malcolm runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplating where he's being led. "Last I checked." Even with her hands plainly visible, it feels a little bit like he's being set up for a punch to land square in his jaw.

"It's hard to trust you when you don't talk through your decision-making."

Dani keeps eating her sandwich and doesn't say anything else. Her statements were fairly mild in comparison to what he had talked himself up to expecting on the walk there. "That's it?" he asks, surprised she's not firing more questions.

"I'm here if you want to talk."

"Works both ways." He maintains eye contact, their blinks hiding thoughts locked between them, yet to reach their mouths to escape.

"First officers on scene gave their statements first, so it's a he said, he said situation, and JT is not being heard. It's difficult to watch my family be punished for something they had no control over." Her eyes burn with the fire of many injustices piled over time, only now receiving attention because of one more. He's keenly aware of how difficult it must be to talk about something that affects her life every day without an end in sight.

"They have the footage from my security cameras." The one time something his mother had forced on him had come in handy.

"Doesn't matter. Broken system." Her words are dejected, defeated. "Sometimes I think you think things are easier than they actually are."

She's probably right—he struggles to connect how a straightforward call for backup escalated into such a tense issue, every bit of it ringing wrong. "You don't usually sound happy about the job anymore." She purses her lips, and he can't tell if it's acknowledgement or weariness. "Since JT brought it up, I've been wondering—have you thought about leaving?" he asks about the same thing JT admitted, hoping for the same answer, that she wouldn't, but equally scared that he might not get it.

"Coming from you?" Dani chuckles, and he's not sure what to make of it. "That's only the bad days. I think about it when I'm frustrated, sure, but Gil didn't give me a second chance to have me walk. I'm in a good spot to focus on change from within if the team works together." She narrows her eyes at him. "You're stuck with me."

"You know we can talk about it before it gets that bad?" Malcolm sets his hand flat, palm down, toward the middle of the table. "I can help."

Dani nods. "Works both ways," she parrots back to him, eyebrows rising a little as she crinkles up the wrapper from her sandwich.

She leaves a lull in conversation again, the type Malcolm was trained to do when he wants to hear someone else's thoughts. He wonders if she received the same training too. "I don't know how to talk about it," he admits. He trusts her and needs to show her that with something, but a clear way doesn't come to the forefront of his mind. She's better at this, even shared first trying to encourage him, and he still can't catch up.

"Hmm?"

"If I tell you I'm seeing how the murderer committed the crime, you'll question my sanity. It's what everyone's done my whole career." He looks at the table, afraid to see her reaction. Though the stamp on his side that he was fired from the FBI is no longer fresh, it hasn't faded at all. It blazes _U. S. Inspected Failure_ whenever he least needs it.

"I might ask to talk things through when you make leaps that could be unsafe for you or for us. I might ask if you need anything if you look like you're having a rough day, just like I'd ask the rest of the team." She brushes his hand across the table. "That's what I care about—your health, you, Bright. Solving a case doesn't matter if there's no you left."

Her words sink his shoulders as his body absorbs the truth. Taking another sip of his tea, he wishes he had something stronger in it to take the edge off of the knife reemerging in his gut. He nods a little, gives some indication that he heard her. "Speaking of great health decisions, I need to go see my father."

"You can solve any case without him." He wants to believe her, to know he could walk away and have the same efficacy, but deep down, it doesn't seem possible. Regardless, it's not why he's going to see his father right now.

"But I can't fix me." He gives a wan smile. "You're a great friend."

"Nothing to fix," she reminds him. "Later. Tell the boss I hope he feels better."

Malcolm hadn't thought about it earlier, but only drinking tea left a little bit of room for dinner. _With dad_ , his father's voice nags him in his head. White shoes, white pants… Mr. David. Red paint, white paint… Claremont. A green door and windows beckon at the end of the hall, drawing them toward his father.

Sitting before the food set out in front of him, he considers whether Gil is doing alright at home and if he should instead be home cooking for him.

Probably.

 _Maybe a cup of tea with ketamine_ , an intrusive thought comes in as he looks at the man across from him. 

"You're a little late, my boy. Thought you forgot about me," his father jabs, pouring the tea from his mind. 

Malcolm feels his pants to double-check he didn't spill in his confusion. "Catching up with a friend. Work thing," he pushes the topic aside.

"Daaani? Or JT?" His father sounds entirely too pleased to hear about his teammates.

"Just friends helping each other." Malcolm refuses to give any further detail, kicking himself for even letting that much slip. He can keep a poker face in the interrogation room, no problem, but as soon as he's in front of his father, all of his training jumps out the lofty windows.

"You've grown into such a good man," his father praises between hefty bites of mashed potatoes. They're as pillowy as his father's hair, fresh from a day whipping in the breeze.

Malcolm wonders who picks the menu. The food tastes quite good, a negligible difference from his mother's kitchen, but he never has much of an appetite when encountering his abuser. His father. His…

He tells himself he needs to let it go, that a respectable distance will help him work on cases at the precinct more effectively. That if he can think of the man as his father without losing sleep, things would be better at home, at work, everywhere. That maybe if he can bring some closure to his past, he and Gil could give a second try at conversations like having kids someday without cringing in horror.

He doesn't want to commit one way or the other—he just wants to be able to have the conversations he owes Gil. He won't agree to marry him before he can openly discuss that question and several others that send him sprinting 'til he collapses in a rubbery heap. It's an arbitrary line, representative of his struggles with communication, but he sticks to it in an attempt to hold himself accountable with his partner.

There are many questions that remain unanswered, from healthcare decisions to whether they always want to stay in the city. It's yet another area Malcolm's failing. Fail, fail, fail, the fails rip into his chest and leave him bleeding out while he watches.

Gil wants to get married.

Malcolm wants to get married. He's trying his best to work in that direction, but he's constantly reminded he can't rush his health. That his procrastination is yet another manifestation of his fear. They're married in every sense except the sheet of paper, his ring burning a hole in his jacket pocket.

"My boy." His father's words snap his head back like an arrow. "Surely you can clean up better than that."

There's no way to swallow the mashed potatoes without getting the taste all over his tongue. It's some butter and milk substitute, not quite the cream Luisa puts in at his mother's. A little low on salt, yet Malcolm suspects that might have something to do with specifications for his father's diet.

His father's been… pleasant. Authoritative, commanding the room as usual, but not demeaning. Not overbearing. Not trying to pry into his life. It's mashed potatoes and vegan gravy Malcolm won't go near, plus a side that looks suspiciously like what might accompany Thanksgiving dinner. Neither occasion is celebratory.

He makes a similar effort to what his father seems to be putting in, eating most of the mashed potatoes and chasing them with water. As light as they appeared on the tray, they turn to heavy cumulonimbus in his stomach, engorged with the threat of rain.

"Any interesting cases?" his father asks.

There's no way Malcolm is mentioning Endicott. That'll take them down a rathole and straight back to Ainsley, something his father had dwelled on for months of quarantine. It also tends to bring back Malcolm's visions of what could have been, replacing the moments he struggled waiting for help with a revving saw and limbs drifting in a lake.

He hasn't told Gil about the saw. Hasn't told him he's thought about hundreds of ways that they could have disposed of the body instead of waiting for the police. It's a burden he's left vague as trauma, hallucinations, and nightmares.

But they're not getting any better.

"Pretty slow right now," Malcolm replies. The lie comes out too easily around his father.

"That's _good_." His father gleams like he told him he got a good report card. "Means you get to recuperate and visit your family."

Yet Malcolm's visiting the family he least wants to see. Thinking about Gil waiting for him at home sends a pang of longing to his gut. It's been a productive day with his father—his time could be better spent elsewhere now.

"Thank you for dinner," Malcolm manages to say, the magic 8-ball ringing truthful. "I should get going for the night."

"So soon?"

"I'll be back on Monday."

"Monday it is." His father beams at him. It's unsettling how something as simple as his presence brings his father so much joy. Gil, the person he's closest to, doesn't even look at him that way, and the combined effect is nauseating.

Malcolm tips his head in return. On the walk to the parking lot, he reads a slew of text messages from Ainsley about meeting up for dinner. He's been able to put it off due to quarantine, but his days of avoiding her are probably numbered. Everything he's seen of her from a distance… has not been good. His expectations for meeting in person aren't very high, or perhaps it's the opposite, his expectations too high and she'll never be able to meet them. Setting himself up to fail.

Castoff blood sprays his chest, an errant nick of the knife catching fabric and skin. Blood drips down his shirt, slowly gliding toward his navel like Gil's traveling kisses. Each press of lip and tongue trails blood that knows no end, tainting them for life.

His phone buzzes again and his arm recoils. A warped blend of reality, what might have been, and what may be hover beneath his fingertips. The present isn't particularly accessible by itself for any extended period of time.

Ainsley doesn't remember most of that night yet acts like she did the right thing. Like she was a savior. Like someone was in danger and their mother's knife was the only way out. Maybe they were in more danger than he thought. Maybe he doesn't quite remember everything correctly either, the truth somewhere in between brother and sister.

By the time he gets home and showers, he only has the energy to climb into bed. Curled behind Gil, Malcolm idly rubs his hand over the uneven scar on Gil's stomach, pleased the day's rest seems to have helped him feel better. It's been nearly half a year since he got the call Gil was hurt, and several surgeries and much rehab later, most of Gil's days are good days as long as he doesn't push too hard. Nearly half a year since...

"Are you happy?" Malcolm asks, the question flowing easily in the darkness.

"Yes." Gil tries to crane his head back, but doesn't get very far. "You?"

"Sometimes, I think." He kisses Gil's back, his thoughts flying through the maze of subway tunnels under his mother's house.

Gil turns over. "What's on your mind?"

Gil's face a dark abyss to Malcolm, Malcolm wonders if Gil can see more than him. If Gil can read the pinch in his brow or the doubt that pulls at his features. "She's always so happy."

"Who?" Gil brushes Malcolm's cheek.

"Ainsley."

"She is a free woman."

Malcolm doesn't need the reminder—he was there for the charges being dismissed. It replays as a double feature at the cinema he can't escape. "She's begging me to go to mother's for dinner."

"We could have them here," Gil offers an alternative.

"I don't know." That'll leave Malcolm nowhere to run to. His places to run are numbered as it is, and it would be risky to burn all of his options.

"Think about it."

"It's not good for me," Malcolm admits, warring with Gabrielle's advice and his idea of being a good brother. "But part of me thinks it might be her way of apologizing."

"It could be drinks or something."

"I can't sit through a few hours of pretending."

"You can do it with your father but not your sister?" Gil challenges, pushing back a little on Malcolm's thought processes. Comparing them in the same sentence doesn't feel awkward to Malcolm, which is more than a little discomforting.

"He's _proud_ of his kills. She can't even admit she's responsible. And… he's usually not as difficult anymore."

"It's a pretty big time difference."

"Every time I look at those victims I see…" Malcolm trails off, lost in a vision of a circular saw decorating his mother's living room. A personal kill, one of vengeance.

"What do you see, kid?" Gil rubs the back of Malcolm's neck, bringing him back from his thoughts.

Malcolm's chest is bound tight with the same shock he had that night, the same inability to do anything while Ainsley slashed and stabbed… Even in the darkness, he can see the crimson splatter all over Gil's face. He wipes it off of his own, the taste of iron remaining on his teeth. 

"Sorry, I lost my train of thought," he covers, barely having enough breath.

"Bright…" Gil tries again, blood bubbling up through his mouth.

Malcolm gasps and closes his eyes, but the blood sticks to his lids and sloshes around as his eyes dart, searching for an escape. It drains through his nose, down his throat, filling his lungs and foaming his breaths. Gil soothes Malcolm's back instead of pushing and whispers words into Malcolm's ear to stem the flood.

The damage has already been done. There's nothing Gil can do to reanimate Endicott, so Malcolm's mind does the work instead, pantomiming a show whenever Malcolm lets it bleed in. Malcolm's unaired thoughts keep reappearing in his nightmares, taunting him through a sleepless night.


	7. Chapter 7

Gil isn't sure what he expected "Bright's down in evidence" to look like, but it's not this. He gapes through the window to one of the examination rooms at Bright in a face-shield, firing nails at plywood from a distance, grin splitting his face like the Joker. Bright doesn't seem to have a target in mind, or if he does, he's not hitting it, nails spraying the board, some of them even rolling on the floor.

Gil supposes of all the Brightish things he's done, this doesn't make the top ten. Regardless, if one of their superiors walks by and sees the errant lack of any safety precautions beyond the face-shield and joy for the activity, there's going to be even more unwelcome scrutiny.

Bright's face looks as aroused as it does mid-fuck, pink rising into his cheeks, pupils wide, and a light sweat on his skin. His heavy breathing alludes to a chase of adrenaline, apparently the drug of choice for the day. The thrill for the kill makes him the star of the one-room show.

Gil pops open the door. "Bright!" he hollers over a _thwap_ against the plywood.

Bright swings around, nail gun pointing at Gil. "Oh, sorry." He drops the gun and a nail shoots across the floor.

"Jesus," Gil mutters under his breath, glaring at Bright. He would never do it, but the urge to grasp him by the shoulders and shake the bank to find some common sense is nearly overwhelming.

"It's for the case," Bright preemptively defends.

Now in the room, Gil can see that some of the nails missed the sheet of plywood and are embedded in the wall. He's not even sure where to start with chastising him.

"JT okayed this," Bright says, breathing heavily, not even giving Gil a chance to start.

"With how much detail, huh?" Gil rests his hands on his hips. JT may have pointed Gil in Bright's direction, but there's no way in hell JT signed off on the reckless activity. It's not like Bright to even ask before doing something.

"You don't believe me?" Bright flips up the face-shield, his sweaty eyes in full view.

"I know you. What the hell were you thinking?" Gil takes in Bright's shirt rolled up to the elbows, sweat forming at the back, hair mussed and sweaty around the shield.

"I'm getting into the murderer's head—I know what he might have been doing to fire off all of those nails."

"Pulling the trigger!" Gil shouts, exasperated. "We have an entire team whose job is to investigate weapons, and you're down here remodeling."

Bright bristles, posture hardening to attack rather than cower. "What happened to me not being your problem at work?"

"What happened to you considering the team first before thinking about yourself? If the Captain saw—"

"Since when have you cared what the Captain sees?"

"Since he and his colleagues have been scrutinizing every move trying to block JT from the promotion he deserves. Since officers in this department decided to stop showing up to provide us backup on scene," Gil rattles off, frustrated by how out of touch with reality Bright can be at times.

He watches the realization cross Bright's face, the remembrance that he has a whole team to think about, _then_ the case. The expansion of his worldview beyond nails flying into everything to the man who's staring furious across from him, the team at work upstairs.

"Go home, Bright," Gil directs, crossing his arms over his ribs.

"It's really unfair for you to say that here," Bright makes a last-ditch effort to sway him.

Gil rubs his brow, knowing he's going against what they've agreed to, but Bright is so far out in left field he's out of options. "I'm sorry. Extenuating circumstance. Update JT on your findings and take a break."

Bright storms out of the examination room, leaving Gil to clean up the mess. The rest of the day is a similar mess once JT catches wind of the impromptu shooting range. "He better not be going to a scene by himself," JT grumbles under his breath.

"He went home."

"Code for wherever he damn well wanted to go." JT's response is short, equally frustrated. "He did that instead of focusing on the victims, which could have been useful." JT hands Gil a folder. "Second vic, Felix Castillo, wasn't a construction worker. He was onsite for the day—worked in real estate."

"We got an ID."

"Yes. Yesterday," JT stresses. "He could have been looking into this."

Gil doesn't know why Bright wasn't researching the victim, but he's certain there must have been a good reason. He reads through the contents of the case file. "Still consistent with an insider, someone who knew he would be there and when everyone would leave."

"Breaks up how they knew each other. Disgruntled coworker or companion seemed likely from the first scene."

"Not necessarily," Gil counters. "Many different roles on a job site."

"Cross-reference the crew from both sites?" JT suggests to Gil. "Ops finally sent over a full list."

"You got it."

A couple hours later, Gil gives Bright a call, but Bright doesn't pick up. He sends a text, _hey, checking in_ , but doesn't get any response. 

Bright's avoiding him. Or Bright's taking a break like he needs to. Gil lets him be and gets to work on the crew lists.

By the time he gets to go home, Gil considers themselves lucky that all it took was some spackle to cover up the stray holes. That this time, Bright was erratic with an inanimate object rather than a suspect.

Walking through the front door, Gil stalls in the entryway. Disassembled pieces of a pistol are laid out on the counter on top of newspaper sheets, the barrel and cleaning rod in Bright's hands. "I didn't know you still had that," Gil says, then remembers to shut the door behind him.

Bright sets the components down and turns. "Hey." His face falls when he meets Gil's. "Yeah, I do. Was an FBI Agent." He shrugs, which goes straight to bristling Gil's spine.

"Who preferred running his mouth instead of drawing his weapon." The words are out before Gil considers them, and he regrets them immediately as Bright's face twists into a grimace.

"Running... my... mouth?" Bright repeats, contempt growing into his words.

Gil scratches his forehead. "Sorry... I didn't expect _this_ "—he gestures at the counter—"after earlier."

"You're upset."

Gil counts over how many steps from the bed to the closet, how many steps from the closet to the front door. He's never seen that gun in the safe, which means it's been out somewhere, and he didn't know. Steps closer to someone using it against them. "I didn't know you still had a firearm in the apartment."

" _You_ have a firearm in the apartment." Bright stands, agitated, and gestures toward him.

"You know I have it."

"You knew I had this."

"I didn't think you had it anymore. We didn't talk about it. You can't just have a gun here and not talk about it."

"This is _my_ apartment!"

Bright's words smack Gil in the chest, taking his air and running his heart yards down the track after the impact. He's been living with Bright the past year. Everything in their lives has been 'theirs.' They've talked about and are on their way toward marriage. For something so personal to suddenly be _his_...

Bright's head drops. "I didn't mean that."

"Finish up. I'm going for a walk. We'll talk when I get back."

Fight turning to flight, Gil walks back through the door, careful not to let it slam on the way out. He doesn't even make it down the block before his phone starts buzzing in his pocket. He knows it's Bright without looking. He can't answer it. There is nothing he can say right now he won't immediately regret, and Bright needs to respect his space. He gave Bright the whole goddamn day, and Bright can't give him five minutes in return.

How many other secrets does his partner have? Bright dodges questions and changes the subject plenty for there to be a body count stacked as high as his father's. He keeps acting erratic as fuck, leaving Gil to question whether Bright even knows what the truth is.

Gil balls his hands into fists, knowing the thoughts are unfair. Bright tells him everything in his own time, even the things Gil knows are painful for Bright to talk about. If he gives him the space, Bright always comes to him.

_Bright didn't tell you this_ , his brain reminds him. It's not helpful, not welcome, but it pops in anyway, ready to poison any glimmer of hope. The same voice that busts into their apartment and interrupts their time together, holding them hostage.

Gil takes a couple laps, working his way from crushed back down to irritated. His nose runs and he hastily swipes at it with a tissue from his pocket, there along with a few stray hard candies in case Bright ever needs them. Heading back to the loft, he vows that he'll listen first before talking. That he'll try harder to empathize with where Bright's coming from today because something's up with him.

When Gil opens the door, Bright isn't anywhere in sight. The bathroom door is open. He heads toward the living room, but Bright's not laying on the couch. "Bright?" he calls, looking up at the ceiling and heading for the stairs at the same time.

Feet pattering up the stairs, he can't help the anxiousness that rises into his throat. Is Bright ignoring him? Did Bright take off? "Malcolm?" he calls again as he walks down the hall, poking his head into each room.

Quick gasps that sound like bursts of steam reach his ears, rushed intakes of air in between shaking sobs. Though they're muffled, the rough hitches are unmistakable, trembling whimpers in between deep, haunting cries. It's difficult for Gil to get another word out around the grip of guilt at his throat. "Kid?" he calls, heading for the last door at the end of the hall. Anxiousness quivers into his knees, leaving him feeling like it's not even him walking toward his own office.

In the doorway, Gil fights not to match the rapid pulls of air that snap into breaking cries. Only the lamp at the desk is on, tipped toward the floor, drawing his eyes to Bright's legs, lit sticking out from behind the desk. For as much as Bright's sobs shake the air, his legs are stock still. Too still like Gil's nightmares.

Gil crosses the room to kneel beside him and dips his head into the darkness under the desk. "Sweetheart?" barely gets out of his mouth before a sobbing Bright pitches forward and squeezes him, knocking the two of them back against the desk drawers.

Bright cries louder, layers of wood and wall no longer between them. "You came back." He blubbers into Gil's chest. "You came back."

_Shit._ Gil needed a minute, but he knows Bright has a hard time, he knows…

"Are you hurt?" Gil asks but can't manage to get a word out of him. "Did something happen?"

Gil runs his hands from Bright's head down his back, feeling for anything out of place under his fingers. He repeats the process along Bright's arms as he shakes and even manages to feel along his legs and down to his feet. Bright is sheltering his middle, so it's a little harder to scan his chest and belly, but Gil manages.

No blood.

No palpable injury.

The only painful spot is on his own head where he knocked against the underside of his desk. Bright shivers in Gil's arms like they brought the outside in and burrows into him like they're at risk of hypothermia. The handles on the desk drawers dig into Gil's back.

Bright's phone lies on the floor, the screen marred with spider cracks. Bright keeps repeating "you came back" like a mantra, his body shaking against him, each wheezing gasp of air not enough to sustain him. The scene forms an image that Bright panicked, and Gil's holding the wreckage. Gil's sweater takes on Bright's tears, the t-shirt underneath wicking them away.

"I'm here, Bright," Gil whispers against Bright's ear, his voice thick with fear threatening to bubble out. It doesn't seem to make any difference. Bright keeps shaking against him, too overwhelmed to do anything. Gil glances around to see how hard it might be to shift toward the softer chair in the corner to pull the blanket off of it and catches a whiff of Bright's fingers.

_Where's the gun?_ slams into the front of his head, demands that he do nothing else until he can locate it. He reaches behind him, underneath the desk, but only finds hardwood. Stretches above him but only feels the blotter and his mousepad. The lamp's no help, only illuminating their sprawl of legs across the floor. He already patted down Bright checking for injuries…

Gil brushes Bright's hair back, the strands wet with sweat. "Bright, is your gun in here? Did something happen?"

Bright quivering in his arms, Gil's not entirely sure why he thought he would be able to get an answer. Gil wasn't thinking. He knows Bright has a hard time, he knows… He needed the space, and he… realizes his breaths are panting faster to chase Bright's. He can't panic right now, he _can't_.

He needs to help Bright.

"We're gonna lay down," Gil alerts him as he double-checks the path to the floor beside them is clear. He uses one arm against the floor to slowly lower them down, then shifts onto his back so he can rest Bright's head on his chest. Forcing himself to take deliberate, deep breaths, he rubs Bright's back and encourages him to do the same. "Nice and slow, kid," he says against the top of Bright's head.

Bright paralyzed with the fear of losing Gil, Gil wrestles with the fear of how easily he could lose Bright to an accident in their home. Gil went for a walk thinking he could diffuse the situation, but he only made it worse. All he did all day was make things worse…

"I'm here," Gil reminds Bright, rubbing Bright's shoulder and neck. Bright's skin is clammy under his long-sleeved t-shirt, his emotions dripping out of his pores. "You're safe."

Bright's left hand unclenches first, too tired to grip at Gil's shoulder any longer. Slowly, the muscles up his arm let go. His legs follow, shifting to curl around Gil rather than locked into position. His right arm desperately holds on, clinging to Gil, wrestling with something Gil can't even see.

Bright's breathing slows to whimpers, warm breaths against Gil's chest, but the puddle under his sweater sticking his t-shirt to his skin doesn't grow any bigger. The wood floor is absolute hell on Gil's back and the pressure on his stomach is uncomfortable, but nothing compares to the neon sign blaring in his mind.

"Can you hear me?" Gil asks, running his hand over Bright's back.

Bright nods. Gil kisses the top of Bright's head, sharing positive reinforcement and the absolute relief washing through him that Bright communicated something. "Did something happen?"

"I'm sorry." Bright hiccups, fresh tears spilling onto Gil's sweater.

"Just lay here with me. Breathe nice and deep." Gil keeps rubbing Bright's back. "Did someone come in?"

"No."

_Thank goodness_ , Gil thinks as he smooths his hand over Bright's back another time. Bright starts to drift to the side a little bit, more of his body resting on the floor than on Gil, leaving Gil with the inclination that Bright might start to pull away. "Where did you leave your gun?" Gil asks.

Bright wipes his face. "Downstairs. Locked."

Gil lets out a long breath. "Good." He kisses the top of Bright's head. Shakes still transfer from Bright's frame into Gil's. "Can I get you the blanket?" Gil asks.

Bright nods, so Gil uses his feet to slide them backward on the floor, inching close enough to pull the blanket down from the chair. He wraps Bright up and rubs his back some more, using friction to warm him up. "I don't feel it that much," Bright tells him. "It'll stop."

It always does. Bright tilts his head to look up toward Gil, tear tracks catching in the light. His eyes are bloodshot, face puffy and red. They look at each other a few moments, unshed tears pooling in Bright's eyes. Gil wipes Bright's face with his thumb, and Bright lowers back to Gil's chest.

"Do you want to get up?" Gil asks.

"No," Bright mumbles.

"Okay. You're in charge. Whatever you need."

"I'm sorry," Bright says into Gil's sweater and sniffs a wet slurp of snot and tears.

"We don't have to—"

"I know I'm overreacting—I'm so sorry. Nothing happened… it's just _me_."

Even though Gil knows Bright's feelings of unworthiness are tied to his traumas and health, it still pains Gil's heart to hear Bright speak poorly of himself, for Gil sees him so differently. He pets Bright's hair, spiking the small hairs at the back of Bright's neck and laying them down again. "I overreacted earlier."

"Doesn't make it right."

"You're right." Gil rubs Bright's back and traces patterns into the blanket. He starts to talk again, but his voice catches, forcing him to retry. "I wouldn't leave." The words threaten tears at the back of his throat. "I might need a walk or a break or even a day, but we would talk about it. If you asked me for the space, I would give it to you in a heartbeat, but I wouldn't just… _go_." He wavers on the last word, finding it difficult to even voice what Bright had feared. Holding back his emotions, guilt pools in his stomach that he said something that made Bright feel that unsure.

Bright takes Gil's hand and kisses the back of it, wetness coming along with it. "I know. Attachment issues. Trust issues. I… got overwhelmed. I don't even know where to start."

"How about we just lay here for now." Gil runs his fingers through Bright's hair.

Bright takes several regulated breaths. "I only take out my gun to clean it," he says and keeps going like he needs to get it off his chest. "It lives near my desk."

"Thank you for telling me."

"There aren't any others."

Gil's worst fears rush through his mind, swarming him with possibilities of harm coming to Bright. "If we had a repeat of someone breaking in here, or—"

"Fingerprint lock. You taught me how to respectfully handle a gun."

"When you're not okay, I—"

" _Gil_." Bright pops his head up and locks eyes with him. 

Gil flares with guilt over the hurt he sees bleeding into the corners. "I'm sorry. That's where my head went. I still"—he breathes out a long breath—"dream about you getting hurt." In some awful, preventable accident. By a monster.

"Yeah, I know." Gil looks at him inquisitively, and Bright continues, "You're not exactly quiet."

Gil nods, picking at his thumb.

Bright rests his hand on Gil's chest and sets his chin on top. "Are you talking about the nightmares?"

"Yeah. You?"

Bright bites his lower lip. "Gabrielle is still trying to talk me out of seeing my father."

"You know my opinion." Gil grits his teeth at the awful idea that's only wrought with harm.

"It's actually working. Yesterday, he was fine. Didn't say a peep about grooming me, goading me into some shenanigans—"

"You didn't sleep last night."

"I never sleep." An easy answer for Bright to say to dismiss the issue.

Gil brushes Bright's hair back from his eyes and runs his thumb along one of the dark circles underneath. "Are you talking about why you can't?"

Bright glances away. "I am being… mostly truthful."

"That's a no." And failing to talk to anyone is the exact space where Gil knows Bright will eat himself alive.

"If I say everything, I don't get to go to work," Bright argues. "You know how much I need work."

"I do." Gil cups Bright's cheek. "You need you more, though."

"I need you."

"Well, we need each other."

Bright tips his head back onto Gil's chest and curls into him again. The weight of what they're not sharing with each other and the trouble they continue to have communicating rests on Gil heavier than his partner. It's challenging for him to know what to do when they have difficulty voicing their struggles.

He knows they're not going to fix it in a night laying on his office floor. The only goal for the evening is to support each other. Right now, that means lying on the floor for Bright. In a bit, that might mean Bright helping him up and getting him a heat pack.

"What I said… earlier… I didn't mean it, Gil," Bright admits, rubbing Gil's hip.

"I know." That moment of anger that turned their loft back into a bachelor pad sits like a sliver Gil can't get out. "You still said it."

Bright lifts his head up and makes an effort to meet Gil's eyes. "I'm sorry." His face is etched with regret, deep lines around his mouth and eyes that aren't typically visible. His lips carry a downward tilt, a sadness he can't let go of.

Every apology Gil attempts to bring to his tongue comes with qualifiers from the circumstances of the day, so he swallows them. He'll need some time to think to clearly communicate how he feels and what he means.

"You have a secret stash of lemon Jell-O around here somewhere? A body count hiding in the closet?" he teases instead, lightly shaking Bright's shoulder in an effort to get him to relax.

"With my family, you never know," Bright jokes back and sobers a little. "I wasn't hiding this, Gil. You know we got past that."

"Hiding stabbing your father is a hard wound to close." Gil can still feel that fight shake through his body if he thinks about it, his office door slamming and vibrating through the precinct walls as Bright took off. At the time, he had his doubts as to whether they would be able to make it past it. Now, it doesn't seem as big of an event compared to some of their other issues since.

"Yeah, it kinda was," Bright chuckles.

"Really, Bright? Now?"

"You love me for it." Bright smirks and leans down to peck Gil's lips.

"I don't think that's the right word." Gil hugs him close. "I know you're struggling," he says next to Bright's ear, needing him to know how important his words are. "It's okay to say that. _Please_ talk to me."

Bright stiffens in his arms, then relaxes again, warring with himself. "I will." He yawns, a rush of hot air blowing into Gil's chest. "I'm exhausted," he admits.

"We gonna sleep on the floor?" Gil jokes.

"No, I think I might shower." Bright pulls away a little bit and sits beside Gil. The gun oil on his hands and turning sweat makes for a combination Gil can understand wanting to get rid of. Gil would wash away the whole day if he could.

"Can you help me off the floor first?"

"Yeah."

The two of them work together to stand up from the floor. Gil leans against his desk, giving his muscles a moment to adjust.

"You okay?" Bright asks.

"No." It's perhaps one of the few feelings not running through Gil's body at the moment. "This is just a little discomfort." He holds his side.

Bright gives Gil a kiss and caresses Gil's bottom lip with his thumb. The strain pulling at Bright's face is still there, for only time and tough conversations will help release it.

Gil rubs his lips together and tastes the salt that transferred between them. "I'm gonna lay down. Come to bed when you're done?"

"Yeah." Bright slips away for the bathroom, his feet padding down the hallway toward the stairs.

Gil lingers in his office, picking up Bright's phone and returning the lamp to its normal spot on the corner of his desk. He heads downstairs and pops his heat pack in the microwave. Glancing toward the living room, he walks that way while it heats.

Bright's desk. The shelves to the left. The shelves to the right. Second try on boxes, and he finds the locked gun case and cleaning kit underneath.

How did Bright put it away so neatly while he was upset? Why does he have it within reach of his desk? Is he afraid of someone getting in? Or is the threat already inside?

Bright was right there when they came to arrest him last year after Eve's death. The assailant was there when he broke into their home but chose an axe instead. Bright sits there all the time when he's working—why does he feel the need to have it nearby?

Has it come out?

_Beep, beep, beep_ the microwave sounds. He puts everything back and lays in bed, heat pack resting over his stomach. It doesn't abate the chill of guilt that lingers in his body. He falls asleep to the pitter-patter of water running in the background, alone.


	8. Chapter 8

Malcolm wakes up with his face still puffy from the night before and the weight of their argument settled heavy in his bones. He takes his pills, sips his tea at the counter, and welcomes Gil's hug from the side. "Would you go out with me later?" he asks, rubbing Gil's arm. Gil agrees with a nod and a kiss to the top of Malcolm's head.

Malcolm knows if he just keeps himself occupied, things will even out. They always do. He's actively working on his relationship with his father, and progress will come. He just needs to be persistent. Patient. If he tells himself that enough times, it's bound to happen.

He needs to focus on his relationship with Gil more. They both need to work together and say the things they're holding back under the guise of protection. Right now, he only has the energy to make a feeble attempt at oatmeal and spend time with him. It's a meager step in a positive direction.

They spend the day lounging together in the living room, each with their books, Sunshine visiting them from time to time. They trade light updates and small efforts at apology and compromise. Though Malcolm is emotionally and physically exhausted and Gil's sleepy eyes tell him Gil feels largely the same, things start to feel less catastrophic and more generally unwell.

"I'm sorry I yelled and took away some of your choices yesterday," Gil admits, drinking a fresh cup of coffee. "I was worried about you, and I should have said that instead."

Malcolm sets his book aside on the couch cushion and shifts to lean into Gil's side. "It feels like there are several things we maybe should've talked about."

"Yeah." Gil's quiet for a bit, taking the time to collect his thoughts in contrast to the speed at which they had talked the day before. His gaze keeps drifting toward Malcolm's desk. "I need to be able to walk just like you do. To be able to talk sometimes when I'm having a rough day."

"You can."

"It doesn't feel like that sometimes."

Malcolm stretches his arm across Gil's stomach, giving his response an equal amount of thought. "Sometimes you censor yourself because you don't think I can handle it." He pauses, warring with himself over his reaction the previous day. "Which I… haven't done a great job of demonstrating I can, but I can. Promise. I will do a better job looking out for when you need an ear or some help."

Gil wraps his arm around Malcolm's back in a gesture that maybe they are successfully talking to each other. Maybe they are both being heard without fear of how the other will react.

"How do you feel?" Malcolm asks.

"Raw and numb at the same time? You?"

"That about sums it up." Malcolm pinches the bridge of his nose. "It was really unhealthy for me to react that way. I—I didn't realize how poorly I'm managing right now. I’m sorry."

Gil hums his understanding and rubs the base of Malcolm’s neck. He moves his arm, but Malcolm stays beside him, resuming his book. Malcolm starts having to read over some of the lines multiple times, the words blurring into the page until he falls asleep against Gil.

When he drifts back awake a little while later, Gil's light snoring indicates he, too, needs some rest. It's short-lived—Gil hugs Malcolm and kisses the top of his head when Malcolm is caught staring. "Want to get ready?" Gil asks.

It doesn't take long for them to dress comfortably, casual sweaters and jeans with their coats on top. Gil even wears a touch of cologne, a hint of cinnamon that draws Malcolm to snuggle close against him as they walk together to a small burger bar they enjoy. Their steady footfalls are relaxing, reminding Malcolm that all he needs to do is talk to Gil.

They sit together at the far side of the bar and order drinks while they warm up. A sweat ring blooms out from Malcolm's tumbler of whiskey, reaching for the truth. "I'm not doing well," he admits, looking into the glass. It's the first he's admitted that to Gil since Ainsley landed them in a bloodbath in his mother's living room. Knowing he's been extra at work, it's the only thing he can think of to try to assuage Gil's concern a bit. _Drink it, or not, drink it, or not_ passes through his mind as he absently swirls the liquid round and round. "I'm doing the grin and bear it through the case and it's taking its toll."

Gil squeezes Malcolm's knee, silently listening and offering his support. It gives Malcolm the courage to keep talking.

"That's why I'm going for more walks, spending more time at Gabrielle's—I need some help getting over this hump," Malcolm explains. His mind makes it look more like Everest in a whiteout with a snow leopard dragging a bloody trail with its prey, but he knows that's likely from his blurred perception of reality.

Gil sips his whiskey. "Can I do anything?"

Everything and nothing at the same time. "What you are now."

Gil leans forward and kisses Malcolm, then rests their foreheads together a second. "Whatever you need, I'm here."

Gil's words warm Malcolm's chest. "I know," Malcolm responds.

"Good." Gil quirks the side of his mouth, attempting levity. "Maybe talk to me when you get the urge to be Annie Oakley."

"This isn't about that." Malcolm pulls away and straightens up from his slouch. He knows Gil is teasing in the same way he would tease him, but he just shared something difficult to communicate and isn't in the mood to joke. He's not in the right mindset to have a drink, either. "You should probably have this." He slides his glass to Gil, who crinkles his brow in thought.

"Do you want to go home?"

Malcolm reseats himself on the barstool and shakes his head. "No." Stress is leaving him uncomfortable, but it's easier to talk for a little bit without the pressure of being home. It's the same feeling Malcolm wrestled with when Gabrielle swapped to teletherapy and his demons were let loose inside their apartment walls with nowhere to escape. "Sorry, I'm not the best company right now."

"You're always good company." Gil squeezes his shoulder. "Booth outside?" It's still too early in the season for it to be comfortable, but the restaurant has pallet seats that can be maneuvered to fit any configuration. "You can people-watch."

With a sigh, Malcolm nods. Gil talks to the waitstaff to get their tab shifted outside and guides Malcolm to a booth. It's quiet, casual—a place where Gil can sit in the corner and pull Malcolm into his chest and no one will question their intimacy at dinner. Even the street around them doesn't have many passersby.

"Five hats, three watches, two dogs," Gil rattles off.

Malcolm scans the street for the items, but all of the bustle from the day is gone. "That's gonna take forever," he complains. "Most people are still spending their time at home."

"You like a challenge."

Malcolm loses count at some point, sitting beside Gil while he eats a burger, picking at his own basket of cheese fries. There is too much cheddar and the fries are getting soggy, but there are enough toasted ends to pick at to get the hint of charred cheese and crisp potato. He can't make the same at home and delivery on fries never works, so it's a treat to savor.

"Your time with JT might be a nice break," Gil points out.

"Gotta get through my father and therapy first."

Gil rubs circles into Malcolm's upper arm, and Malcolm drifts. Malcolm's struggles keep forcing their way into the front of his mind, competing with his attempts to relax. One shifts to the top, wielding a knife glinting with his visage. "Do you think I could murder someone?" he asks.

"Anyone can. You won't," Gil says surely like it's a forgone conclusion that doesn't require any thought. He shifts his arm to hold Malcolm, the touch of support bringing Malcolm a welcome comfort.

"I keep seeing different ways to... disappear Endicott." The statement alone makes Malcolm's hand shake, so he focuses more on people-watching again to offer a distraction. "That night, my father told me how to hide his body."

"But you didn't. You called for backup and got help," Gil reminds him.

Malcolm wrings his hands, frustrated that he can't stop the tremor on command. His nightmares and hallucinations paint an entirely different picture, one where he's the culprit, not the shaky voice on the phone. "That's not what I keep seeing." His voice is filled with the same doubt that consumed him as he tried to describe the scene that night, questioning every splatter and gouge as real or imagined. Even his nightmares didn't come with warm crimson on his fingers, soaking into his pores as if it could provide much-needed nourishment. The simultaneously slick and tacky feel let him know it was all too real.

"I'm sorry that's happening."

Malcolm looks at his fingers, expecting to see Endicott's blood again but only finding chilled digits. With each rub of warmth into them, he fears he'll reveal the blood underneath. "The gun I was cleaning, I brought it to my mother's before everything happened. It was a dumb thing to do because I don't think I could ever shoot it in defense. I pointed it at him, but I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. And Ainsley… Ains, she… and after…" he gasps, air difficult to take in as he claws at his hand. "I keep dismembering his body."

Gil rubs Malcolm's arm and whispers into his neck, and it helps a little, but Malcolm needs a few minutes to even out his breaths on his own. The chilly air freezes Malcolm's lungs, taunts him that he can't find his way out of the memory, but he can. He's not in his mother's living room, he's not covered in blood. He's sitting with Gil outside on a cold day in New York, the occasional person walking by on the street, not seeing any of the pain trapped inside of him.

Malcolm's nose is cold, and his lips will likely chap from his nervous licking as he fights to breathe more easily. "I didn't know how to talk about it," he says, feeling his throat to prove to himself that it's clear and he can keep breathing. "I didn't want you to think I couldn't be at work."

"You suffered a trauma—multiple traumas in a very short period of time—then ended up isolated due to quarantine. I think you got used to keeping things to yourself." Gil sighs. "And I didn't make that any easier on you."

"It was hard without you for a stretch. Hard without Gabrielle." Malcolm rubs his eyes. "And my brain keeps trying to bring a saw to our murder scenes."

"You might need to explain."

"Hallucinating."

"Connected to?"

"Endicott, Ainsley."

"Is that part of why you don't want to see her?" Gil rests his hand over Malcolm's and rubs Malcolm's cold fingers.

"I don't know. She won't listen to a thing I have to say. It's like I did it, like I'm the bad guy." The longer they're apart, the distance grows wider, like she's the child under their mother's protective wing and he's the castaway tossed to the ground, left to fly or die.

"There's not a good and bad."

"I didn't kill anyone. My brain just wanted to listen to my father and hide the body."

Gil swallows, the motion raising and lowering Malcolm's head on his chest. "But you're still seeing him."

"It's complicated."

"What happened with looking into Felix yesterday?" Gil thankfully sidesteps the conversation about Dr. Whitly, but the new topic is only a little less burdensome.

"I wanted to see if he could have been hit standing, from a distance. Dani and I were going to compare notes. Hard to aim that way, it turns out." But Malcolm never got to talk to Dani because Gil sent him home. It took the heavy bag plus his tennis ball to reduce his frustration, only to have it flare when Gil got home. "Could we… not talk about work right now?" he requests, guilt reemerging for leaving his teammates behind to work alone.

"Is the case too much?" Gil stiffens a little, perhaps wary of the response.

"No," Malcolm says firmly. He _needs_ to be useful. "I don't want to come off."

"Know it's an option. Having Endicott brought up so soon isn't easy."

"Can't be easy for you, either."

Gil kisses the top of Malcolm's head, perhaps needing more contact while he thinks. Malcolm rubs Gil's hand, finding the same chill there, yet knowing he won't uncover any blood on Gil's skin.

"We're all safe," Gil says near Malcolm's ear. "My injury, that day, what's happened because of it, the effect that has on you—that bothers me. The man,"—he shrugs—"he's dead."

"Lucky."

"Perspective."

Malcolm rubs Gil's knee, preparing his words gently. "What part bothers you a lot?"

Gil rests his hand on top of Malcolm's and winds their fingers together. "That I can't help."

"You help me all the time," Malcolm counters, finding the statement preposterous.

"It's never enough to keep you safe."

"I have some culpability in that, don't you think?" The idea that Gil thinks he's responsible for Malcolm's safety brings guilt to the surface, for Malcolm knows he does very little worrying for his own wellbeing in moments where he can help someone else. It's not even an afterthought, it's typically forgotten until someone else points it out. Malcolm doesn’t need a keeper—he needs his partner.

"I know it's a me thing. I get it." Gil pauses a moment and clears the roughness from his throat. "Between trying to help JT, looking out for you, the team—it's a lot. Brings back a lot I used to talk through with Jackie."

Malcolm registers another reminder that he needs to make himself more available for Gil to talk. "Is Ephram helping?"

"He thinks that break we talked about would be useful. Says it might help prevent burnout." Gil sounds tired but conflicted, balancing a tightrope of recommendations and practicality.

Malcolm sighs, knowing neither one of them wants to leave right now. "We could take a day. Do something small."

"I don't want to risk not being here."

Malcolm doesn't either, but he needed to offer. "Is there another activity you might like to try? A day with a friend? Something where you can just… let go?"

"Most meetups are still closed down. Maybe I can call the guys to work on the bins we talked about for the back seat. Need someplace to put the blankets and emergency supplies."

Knowing not to push a particular activity, Malcolm hums his agreement. They're perhaps a little more dependent on each other in some areas than they should be at times, where in others, they operate too independently. Resting against each other, talking in the chilly air, seems to be an appropriate step toward a middle ground, the interdependence they keep working toward, yet is so difficult to attain.

"You're gonna freeze out here, kid." Gil rubs his hands up and down both of Malcolm's arms. It's a cue to go, and there aren't any more words that readily come to Malcolm's tongue to say differently.

They settle their tab and walk home, Malcolm snuggling close into Gil's side under the guise of getting warm. "Jackie was the best to talk with. Listened most of the time and had compassion and empathy for wherever someone was coming from." He rubs Gil's back. "I have to work a lot harder to come anywhere close to what she did so easily," he admits. "But I'm here when you need to talk."

Gil stiffens and takes a deep breath. "And she isn't."

Malcolm scrambles to backtrack what he thought was supportive. "That's not—"

Gil squeezes him back. "I know. My words. The house used to be a constant reminder, but now it's the little things... food, sweaters. The more I talk with Ephram, the more it feels like yesterday sometimes."

"Processing grief instead of blocking it out." Malcolm attempts to understand what Gil's sharing.

"Yeah." Gil rubs Malcolm's back and they separate. "When you try, you're better at listening than you give yourself credit for."

Malcolm shrugs. It doesn't feel like something they should need to praise between each other—it seems like something that should be second nature by now. "Negative talk track, Malcolm," Gabrielle's voice reminds him, and he lets it go so his time with Gil doesn't get further interrupted.

They walk quietly, a mix of drifting apart and huddling back together for warmth. When they get home, two packages are waiting for them inside the door to the street. Gil cocks a questioning eyebrow. "Our blackout curtains," Malcolm explains.

"Putting me to work tomorrow."

"I'll do it."

"I've seen your construction skills." Gil smiles so Malcolm knows he's teasing. "I've got it. Thank you."

Gil doesn't let him near the screw gun while he works above the arc window. He tells Malcolm he can be the construction foreman and let him know if the curtains look level after he installs the hooks. The first rev of the screw gun, it sounds too much like a circular saw, so Malcolm bows out for a walk. By the time he gets back, fresh pastries as a dessert in thanks, Gil has the task completed. Malcolm misses his plain wall, but he can't argue with the functional improvement. Gil practically moans over the sfogliatella.

**Author's Note:**

> i've received significant support from so many people in this fandom that help make my writing possible. as this story is E, if you're 18+ and would like to chat prodigal son with wicked awesome people, come on by the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/TVkmgxV).


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